


everywhere i roam, i'll see you on the road

by lavenderseaslug



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, slime puppy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-01-24 10:37:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21336877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderseaslug/pseuds/lavenderseaslug
Summary: Intro to American Politics isn't perhaps the best place to flirt, but goddammit if Roman Roy isn't going to try.
Relationships: Gerri Kellman/Roman "Romulus" Roy
Comments: 121
Kudos: 227





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> a) rating will go up in later chapters  
b) to quote my friend, this is one of the dumbest things i've written and i'm gonna post it one dumb chapter at a time!  
c) pls enjoy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

First day of classes, syllabus day, whatever it’s called, it’s Dr. Gerri Kellman’s least favorite day. Antsy students too interested in each other’s new haircuts and fresh fall wardrobes to really pay attention, a day of learning lost to tradition and the idea that college students should be eased in from their summers off. 

She looks out at the students in the small lecture hall. “Introduction to US Politics” is never the largest draw of the department, but she gets a few non-majors every semester, filling a gen ed requirement. She doesn’t make it easy for them, but she’s been told not to make it too hard either. 

A couple students she recognizes from a poli sci intro course last year, one junior major she’s seen skulking around the department, though this is the first time she’s had him in a class. As she moves through the chairs, handing out copies of her syllabus, she tries to gauge who will be the bright spots in the semester, whose papers she’s just going to have to slog through. 

“I only take attendance on the first day of the semester, after that, I don’t care whether you’re here or not. Learning the material is up to you.” Her perfunctory attitude towards attendance is sometimes appreciated, rarely taken advantage of. Dr. Kellman’s reputation precedes her, and for the most part, people want to be in her class. 

“Allen, Tabitha,” she starts the role call, looking over the rim of her glasses as she marks down students who raise their hands. She moves through the names, past Stewy Hosseini, past Naomi Pierce, and when she calls out “Roy, Roman,” the slouching, dark-haired junior raises his pencil in the air, his eyes hooded, staring at her. For some reason, meeting his gaze pulls a small smile from her, a quick quirk of the lips, and then she returns to the list. 

She lays out the course requirements, their three papers, one group presentation - the assignment that always gets groans. “If you don’t think you’ll have to work with other people in the world of politics...well I hope you’re rich.”

Roman’s hand goes up. “If we’re rich, can we bypass the group presentation?” There’s good-natured snickering around the room, and Gerri fixes him a look over her glasses, tucks her hair behind her ear. 

“How much?” she asks, and he sits up straighter, the rest of the class going quiet, smothered grins as they wait to see - who will be embarrassed? Professor or student. 

“How much?” he parrots, setting his pencil on the desk. 

“How much is not doing a group presentation worth to you?” she says, leaning against the edge of her desk, crossing her legs at the ankle, willing to play out the scenario, willing to give him a little slack in the rope, all the more to hang himself with later. 

He’s quiet, considering. “A thousand dollars,” he says, after a bit. Gerri smiles, benevolently, pushes herself up from her desk. 

“You value your contribution to any potential group at a meager one thousand dollars? That doesn’t bode well for your future in this department, Mr. Roy,” she says, doesn’t look at him again, even as a smattering of giggles breaks out, even when his pencil drops to the floor, rolling off the desk. She moves down the syllabus, highlights important dates, makes sure they know her office hours. 

“My door is open to any and all with course-related questions, or, perhaps, to any future offers of bribes. I hope you’ve all learned from Mr. Roy’s example that both my time and yours are valuable, and to price it accordingly. First lesson in politics. Class dismissed.” She turns away as the class files out, notebooks and folders being stuffed into messenger bags, the soft chatter of excitement that always accompanies a new year. 

She can see Roman slink out, dark sweater and dark hair, a look tossed over his shoulder at her, a smirk on his face, and she has to remind herself not to blush. 

-

This isn’t her best semester, but it’s far from her worst. The students seem relatively engaged, three-fourths of them do the assigned reading on any given day, and she’s only had one person drop the class. And then there’s Roman Roy. 

Roman Roy, whose dad’s name is on the fucking business building, whose older brother graduated summa cum laude three years ago and is wrapping up an MBA. Roman Roy who seems to not give two fucks about what he’s doing at all. One day he shows up with a toothpick in his mouth and what she’s sure is a flask of bourbon. She’s from Kentucky, she knows the smell. Another day, he suggests that they all just take their shirts off, that learning will happen best when their bodies are free. 

Mostly she ignores him. Except for the fact that it’s _fun_. She hates to admit it, but he makes her laugh. Deep inside, where no one can see, but she’s laughing all the same. If she were a vainer woman, she might think he was baiting her, trying to make her break. But she’s seen the girls he dates, how he leans over Tabitha’s desk, and knows that there’s nothing there for a dried up old professor. 

What gets her the most is that he actually knows what he’s talking about, when he cares to participate. He’s _smart_. His first paper, on the long-term effects of gerrymandering, argues at a level she hasn’t seen from an undergrad in years. On the first day of class, she worried about who would be stuck with him for the group project and now she thinks whatever group he’s assigned is lucky. He’s the best mind in the room. After her, of course.

He also starts taking advantage of her office hours, a rare thing, she’s learned. Students have defaulted to emailing with questions, posting on the class message board. She doesn’t mind, not really, because it gives her uninterrupted grading time, a few hours free a week where she can almost count on the fact that no one will knock on her door. 

But right after midterms, he slings himself into her office, slouches down into a chair, doesn’t even bother to pause at the door to see if she’s busy first. “You know tests like that are why students call you Dr. Killman, right?” he says. 

She does know. And she likes it. 

“And you got a B-plus,” she says, “so why are you here?” He mutters something under his breath. “What was that?”

“A B-plus is bad, plus terrible. Old Roy family saying. Practically our crest, if my dad didn’t say “fuck off” so much.” He’s twitching a little, moving in the chair, trying to find a comfortable position, only resting when he puts a leg over the arm, foot dangling. 

She twists her lips. “Are you asking about potential extra credit, to bump you up to an A?” It feels like feeding him the question he’s looking for, but a part of her just wants to know his response. 

She’s not disappointed, when his eyebrows go up, when his eyes darken. “What’s the extra credit, teach?” His leg slides off the arm of the chair, his hands folding on her desk. She notices how long his fingers are, how pale. His hair looks like it might be greasy, some patchy fur on his chin that means he’s either trying to grow a beard or not that good at shaving. 

“A thousand words on the issue of raising taxes on the rich.” She arches a brow, knows full well that the Roy family is very near the top of that 1%, curious to see how morality factors in to family loyalty. He smirks back, drums his fingers against the desk, beating out a thrumming tattoo. 

“That’s it?” he says. “I mean, all I have to do is write two pages on, like, why poor people want to take money from my family or whatever?”

“Or whatever.” She waves a hand. “Try to do some outside research and not just, _like_, why it’s bad because you won’t get a pony for Christmas.” 

“Dr. Vernon just gives me an A, usually.” He doesn’t seem mad, more curious, perhaps slightly wary. She wonders if he’s ever really had to try at anything. 

“Do I look like Dr. Vernon, Mr. Roy?” she asks. “Careful with your answer, you might insult my ego.” 

“Let me just say that on that, you know, rating site for professors?” She nods, resists the eyeroll, stopped looking at the whining students saying she graded them too hard years ago. “There’s a chili pepper by your name.” 

“A thousand words by Friday’s class, Mr. Roy,” she says, a clear dismissal, turning her head back to her computer screen, hoping he hasn’t noticed her blush, though she feels like her cheeks might be bright red, for as hot as her face is. 

-

It’s not a one-time occurrence, either. He starts visiting weekly, she becomes accustomed to his sprawling limbs in her chair, to conversations that start at politics and end at the amusement park ride he dreamt up the night before. Roman starts quizzing her about coffee and tea, finds out what she likes to drink, brings her a warm cup every time he comes to sit, and she wonders if it’s a sort of payment for her attention. 

They get to a point where he works on assignments for her class, for his other classes, in the chair next to her desk. She finds the quiet tapping on his laptop almost comforting as she works on her computer, reading articles, planning lectures. 

He fights with her on assignments, sometimes, says the reading is too biased, her lecture was too pointed. She’s never sure how serious he is, or if he’s just looking for the argument. She gets the sense he likes them, that he’s learned how to provoke her just right, that he likes to see her mad. 

“What if I wrote that I would motivate my friends and colleagues to vote by threatening to murder them if they didn’t?” he asks, looking over the short paper assignment handed out earlier in the week. 

“If you had sound reasoning and evidence that it would work, I assume I’d have to give you an A,” she says blandly, likes to see how far he’ll go, likes to send him spooling out before winding him back in. 

“Is this some sort of, like, thing? You know, you pretend to be all cool and hot and aloof and then you get me to write you a paper about murder and then, like, the cops show up at my door?” His hand is on the lid of his laptop, ready to close it down. 

“That’s a pretty detailed plan when all I’m trying to get you to do is think about why college students don’t vote.” She steeples her fingers and looks at him. “What good would it do me to have you arrested, anyway? How would I get my weekly coffee?”

“Higher taxes on the rich, probably,” he answers, raises his own paper cup in a mock toast. She mirrors the movement, takes a deep sip, and hates how good it tastes, just a little bit, watches him leave her office, leaving the door open behind him. 

It’s not just assignments he argues about, but the readings too, flopping down with a quibble that she knows will turn into a discussion of the ridiculous prices at the campus bar sooner or later. He surprises her, when, near the end of term, he just throws his hands in the air. 

“I don’t get it,” he says, a rare admission from a student who never wants to be wrong, never wants to be caught out not knowing. He pushes the papers he’s printed out towards her, and she just sees it’s that fucking reading about the gender gap in politics, knows he’s baiting her, doesn’t know how yet. 

“What don’t you get, Roman?” she says, slipping up, using his first name, has to barrel on like she didn’t notice, has to hope he didn’t either - the smirk on his lips suggests he did. “Women? Politics? Sexism? What’s confusing to you?”

“The title,” he says. “‘American Party Women’ and wouldn’t you know it, Coachella? The Met Gala? None of it mentioned. How much of a party can these women be having?” It’s so ridiculous, so inane, so obviously a thin excuse to come sit and talk to her that Gerri isn’t even sure she can be mad, not really. 

“You had no problem understanding the reading, then, I take it.” She purses her lips, stares down the barrel of her glasses at him, gets the feeling that he’s more willing prey than mouse caught in a trap. 

He just shrugs, shakes his head. Smiles. 

“Time-wasting should be a criminal offense,” she says, but she’s smiling too. 

“But where’s the fun in that?”

She can’t remember the last time a student insinuated themselves into her life like this, the last time she drove home from work with a smile on her face because of what some twenty-one year-old with more dollars than sense said to her on campus. And she tells herself to stop mooning and get over it, all the while waiting for the next afternoon, the next cup of coffee. The next time he’ll make her laugh.

-

Dr. Frank Vernon catches her in the parking lot, sidles up to her and she has to stop the grimace from spreading across her face. 

“It’s against campus policy to fraternize with students,” he says, his breath making small clouds in the cold air. He’s saying it like he knows something, like he’s trying to hold it over her head. It’s all she can do to stop her mouth and keep her reaction to an annoyed glance his way. “I’ve seen him in your office.” 

“Seen who?” she asks, “Seen a student discussing items on the syllabus and upcoming papers and projects? I’m sorry, Frank, if it’s an unfamiliar sight for you. All I hear about your office is that it smells like onions and the female students think you get a little leery.” She doesn’t have time for him on the best of days, but it’s group presentation day and she’s just hoping that Roman actually pulled something out of his ass. And she’s sure that at least one group’s presentation is sure to be shit. She’ll have to sit through it without the aid of Advil, which she left at home. Next to her very full, very hot thermos of coffee. 

“Just be careful, Gerri,” he says, hands up, stopping in his tracks to let her get ahead. “The Roys are a vindictive bunch.” 

Her face is burning, from anger and embarrassment. Does she look like an old washed-up teacher, mooning after a student? Is that what people see when they walk by her office? And who is Frank to say _anything_ when he’s been the reason three women have changed their major? She swallows, and heads to the small lecture hall, doesn’t even stop by her office first. 

There’s a fresh cup of coffee waiting on the podium, and no sign of Roman anywhere. 

Part of her wants to tell him what Frank said, wants to see his reaction when he knows she’s been accused of trying to seduce him. Simple denial? Protesting too much? Laughing in her face? And part of her wants to keep it her secret shame. It’s just one student, one semester. In the spring, he’ll be back in the international politics classes and she won’t see him again. 

But the coffee helps. It helps so much. 

It helps enough that the very worst presentation doesn’t even seem that bad. And she feels a sense of pride that Roman’s group has the very best one, even has a bibliography at the end, though she feels certain he ad-libbed almost all of the swearing. A group member shoots her a worried look when he talks about “fucking liberals” and “dumb fuck conservatives” and she just shakes her head slightly, tells herself not to look too fond of the idiot waving his hands at the front of the classroom. 

“You survived,” she says, when he plops down in her office later that day, not even during her office hours, just to see her. The thought gives her no small amount of pleasure, but she’d deny it if he asked. 

“Barely! I’m amazed you haven’t lost brain cells grading their papers.” He doesn’t mean it, not really. She knows he liked his group well enough, couldn’t stop herself from assigning him people she sees him talk to before and after class. Doesn’t want to think about why she put Tabitha in another group. “It could’ve been worse. You could have put me in a group with Greg the fucking egg.” 

She’s heard the nickname - because they think he’s just going to get a goose egg on his finals - and has a mild soft spot for the bumbling first-year, too tall for his own good, just a pile of arms and legs that don’t fit into the small plastic seats. But she knows Roman would have berated him into a nervous wreck, that his public speaking skills would’ve gotten even worse than they already are. She has some kindness, hidden deep inside. 

“Didn’t want you to get outshined,” she says. Because she doesn’t have that much kindness, and she enjoys the look of shock that morphs into glee across his face. She twists her mouth, knows she has a syllabus to work on, and exams to prepare. Instead, she lets Roman sit in the chair, waits to see what he’ll do next. 

“Does the Evil Dr. Killman drink beer?” he asks, but he’s not quite meeting her eyes and she’s not quite sure what he’s asking. They both have a wariness about each other, she thinks, like cats circling, waiting for the other to pounce. 

But she’s also not an idiot, and she knows what he’s asking. And lies. “No.” Doesn’t even follow it up with banter, stares right at her computer, Frank’s insidious words echoing in her head. _The Roys are a vindictive bunch_. Roman bangs his bag against the doorframe as he leaves, a temper tantrum if she’s ever seen one, and she realizes she has no way to get in touch with him, too aware of the dangers associated with sending anything remotely illicit through her school email. 

It’s ten o’clock at night, when she’s drinking wine by lamplight, computer nestled in her lap, that she starts to type out an email. 

_Mr. Roy - _

_I think perhaps a meeting is in order. Your suggestion was not without merit, but some discussion is necessary. Please let me know when you’re available._

_Dr. Kellman_

And below it, she edits her email signature, adds ten digits, tentatively strung together. Her finger pauses on the touchpad. There’s no turning back when she presses send, when she hits the button. It feels a little like she’s detonated a nuclear device on her life.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> out here, just living life. hope you enjoy!
> 
> i'm going to make myself a drink.

Roman’s text comes at three o’clock in the morning, Gerri’s phone buzzing against her nightstand. Fumbling for her glasses, she sees six words:

_Got the hots for me, Teach?_

She texts back a middle finger without much thought. A fuck you to start things off, because where else is this going to go, really. 

_Up late_ is Roman’s next missive, not even a question this time, just a statement.

**You presume to know my sleeping habits?**

** __ ** _You’re just old, and old people like to sleep_

**Fuck off**

There’s something about Roman that doesn’t make her feel her age, that keeps her from worrying about the lines around her eyes, the brackets at her mouth. She doesn’t even think her age bothers him. But he knows it might bother her, that’s what it is.

_Do you want to get a beer? _

The question is out there, no mistaking it now, no doubt as to what he’s asking her for. She twists her lips, knows she should have prepared an answer. But instead she prevaricates, a tried and true tactic, the way to make someone else give first.

**Do they serve beer at 3am?**

There’s a wait before the three dots appear, a wait that fills Gerri with doubt, with concern, with anxiety. She’s never put herself in danger like this before, no other student worth her time or the risk.

_If you pay them enough_

A detente. A standstill. Gerri wonders if perhaps they’ll be at this stalemate forever, doesn’t think she can be the one to push. But she doesn’t know if Roman will be able to push either. So she sets her phone aside and turns over, turns away, tries to remember a time when she felt sane and in control. 

The buzzing of her phone makes her pulse quicken but she stops herself from reacting, tells herself the text message will still be there tomorrow. Sleep doesn’t come easily, but it comes eventually, fitful and light, quilt kicked off her feet by the time the sun rises. 

Her phone blinks at her. A new message. Two new messages. 

_Saturday? _

_Fuck._

Her silence taken as denial, interpreted as rejection. It’s six-thirty in the morning and still Gerri texts him back. 

**7pm. Gibson’s**. 

It’s a small bar, away from campus, not in the neighborhood of anyone she knows. She’s been there three times on disastrous dates, with men too interested in their own accomplishments to pay any attention to her across the table. She’s got the smallest feeling that this might be the time that breaks the streak. 

The fact that it’s only Wednesday makes Saturday seem ages away. The only real relief is that Roman is in her Tuesday/Thursday class, and she won’t have to figure out how to contort her face when she sees his in person for another twenty-four hours. Professionalism is her watchword, but she’s never come this close to crossing the line before. 

When she gets to campus, there’s a part of her that feels like everyone knows, like Frank sent out an all-faculty missive, like there’s a neon sign blinking above her, an arrow drawn on the classroom whiteboard, declaring what she’s flirting with. 

But no one stares, the seniors in the politics seminar act the same as they did the day before, sweatpants and tired eyes, coffee mugs clutched in their hands. The students she’s known for four years, who call her “Kellman” without the preceding title. There’s a comfort with them, they’re like worn rocks on a lake bed, nestled into each other. 

“All right,” she says, like her early morning text messages haven’t thrown her into tumult. “Let’s talk about the role of media in American politics.” She smirks a little. “If there even is one.” That gets a few pity chuckles, an eyeroll. And then they start the discussion. 

Roman doesn’t visit her office, not for the whole day. She pretends like she doesn’t miss him, sitting in his usual chair, ribbing her about something while she sends emails and plans lectures. She turns on music, soft and slow, and ignores the headache threatening at her temples, the lack of a mid-afternoon caffeine boost she’s become accustomed to. 

She doesn’t hear from him at all until she’s home, after her shower, a towel wrapped around her chest. And that’s when her phone buzzes, and she knows instinctively who it’s going to be. 

_In bed yet?_

**I’m not infirm.**

** __ ** _You never know. You could break a hip at any point._

**Just how old do you think I am?**

** __ ** _70s? 80s?_

**Who says you don’t know how to flirt?**

He just sends back a winking smiley face, and Gerri hates herself a little when she catches herself grinning at her phone, standing in the middle of her bedroom, dripping water on her rug.

-

“Mr. Roy,” she says, her voice more stern than she means it to be. “Perhaps your time would be better served looking at today’s reading than Ms. Allen’s rear end.” Tabitha’s face turns beet red and Gerri regrets bringing her into it, but the words are already out of her mouth. Roman just returns to his usual slouch, his lips tipped up in a smirk, like he knows what’s really eating at her. 

“Tell me about the Bible Belt’s effect on politics.” She doesn’t soften her gaze, doesn’t back down, doesn’t even let herself blush at being caught out in mild jealousy. Roman just stares back for a long moment, long enough that Gerri can imagine the class shifting nervously in their seats. She tips down her glasses, looks at him over the rims. “Perhaps you’ll be more prepared for next week’s class.” 

She can see that he’s about to open his mouth, that he’s going to say something that dances on the edge of what she has deemed appropriate in her mind, that whatever he says may make her regret agreeing to meet him for drinks. So instead she speaks over him, cuts him off, calls on another student before he can say a thing. She sees him snap his mouth shut out of the corner of her eye, sees his arms cross, feels a clenching of her chest, a worry worming at the back of her mind. It doesn’t go away for the rest of the class period. 

Roman dawdles as the class lets out, stays in his seat, twirling a pen between his fingers. When it’s just the two of them, when Gerri’s stared at her laptop as long as she can, pretending he’s not there, she finally looks up. 

“You can’t do that,” she says. “Not in this class, not when I’m at the front of the room.” Her mouth is sealed tight around the words, no wiggle room. She’s firm. But kind: “See you Saturday evening.” A dismissal.

It occurs to her that he needs boundaries, that Roman is at his most successful when expectations are set. That’s when he wants to rise above, that’s when he wants to do better. The undefined areas are where he struggles, where he chafes. He wants to see how much she’ll let him test her. She hopes he’ll survive when the answer is “not much.”

She texts him that evening, initiating now, trying to test out her own boundaries, to see where she itches, to see where she gives. She wants to be light-hearted, to be loose and fun in ways she knows she knows. She wants to make sure he doesn’t regret what they’ve started.

**I hope a verbal spanking wasn’t too off-putting.**

The three dots appear almost immediately, like he’s been holding his phone, just waiting for her. The thought makes a small ember glow in her chest. And then she sees the message.

Eggplant emoji.

It makes her chuckle, makes her laugh, makes her bend over, hands on her knees as the mirth rolls through her. It’s been so long, she’s been so cold. And now there’s this. 

-

Gerri doesn’t know what to wear to Gibson’s, doesn’t know what he’ll be wearing. Doesn’t have anyone she can call about this. For a woman who doesn’t think about clothes on the day-to-day, happy enough to reach into her closet and trust that she’ll look good in whatever she owns, she finds herself fretting in front of her hangers, everything looking too stiff, too flirty, too staid, too young, too old. 

She puts on a skirt, because she likes her calves, because she’s wearing heels, because she can imagine the look in Roman’s eyes when he sees her bare legs. And she finds a blouse, silky and floral, buttons up the front, done up just enough to leave a hint around her cleavage, more than she’d ever show on campus. 

Her hands fidget on the steering wheel as she drives, the floral scent of her perfume drifting around her nostrils, the smell keeping her somewhat grounded. “You see him every day,” she tells herself, a pep talk to give her courage, the vulnerability she only shows herself. “He knows what he’s getting.”

She doesn’t know what kind of car he drives, doesn’t even know if he knows how. She’s met too many rich kids who just get driven from place to place. Roman could easily fit into that box, has the air of someone who gets handed things. She imagines the conversation with his driver, the explanation of who he’s going to meet. There’s probably an NDA involved there. 

The bar isn’t crowded, she finds a little table tucked away, where she can see the door, vodka gimlet in hand, half drunk before she even sees him duck into the building. 

He scans, warily, like a cat on the perimeter of a room, tracking the enemies, the allies, tallying it all up in his head. She raises her hand, a little wave in the darkened room, and his head lifts as he makes his way to her. 

She’s swallowing a cold sip as he stands next to the chair across from her, points at her now near-empty glass. “Can I get you another?” It’s unexpectedly nice and she thinks the surprise is evident on her face. 

“Chivalry is not, you know.” He shrugs. 

“Gimlet. Vodka.” She manages a small smile, her teeth hidden behind her lips. The nerves fluttering at the edge of her consciousness are more unsettling than anything else she’s experienced, so unfamiliar, the antithesis of her stoic demeanor. 

He’s back soon, his presence butting against her consciousness, handing her the glass, their fingers touching. She feels like she’s always so aware of where he is now; in the classroom, in her office, around the department. He’s _there_. And she knows it. 

“It’s not like we’re fucking on the dean’s desk,” he says, a strange sort of greeting, sliding into the chair finally, a drink to match hers in his hand. 

“Jesus,” she breathes. “It certainly is not. And you can shelve that fantasy right now.” It’s the most they’ve acknowledged what’s between them, it’s as much a promise that _something_ is in their future as anything else. She feels the heat bloom through her body, can’t stop the smile from reaching her face, from crinkling her eyes. 

Roman looks mildly chastised, takes a sip of his cocktail through the small straw, lips pursing around the plastic. “Fucking on your desk?” he asks quietly, looking up at her through furrowed brows, dark eyes dancing. 

“What makes you think you deserve to fuck me anywhere?” she asks, eyebrow lifted, mind filled with images of being pressed against the shiny oak in her office, hands splaying across the paperwork, Roman’s presumably pale ass clenched, hips bucking into her. She’s grateful for the dark lighting, the low lamps that can hide her flushed cheeks. 

“I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t, you know, want to. Or whatever.” Always cagey, always indifference thrown up at the last moment as a shield. But he’s not wrong, whatever else he is. She’s never met any other student for a drink across town. 

“There are rules, you know,” she says, leaning in a little. He’s wearing a cologne, too much of it. She doesn’t love it, doesn’t hate it either. Still thinks about getting him a different bottle for Christmas. 

“Like no fucking on the dean’s desk,” he says, leaning in too. 

She hums, waits him out, like she’s waiting for him to give the right answer in class. He moves his fingers through the condensation of his glass. 

“Like no stunts in the middle of class, like you’re asking for a slap.” She’s stern again, pursed lips and raised brow, and she sees how his eyes go wide and dark, gets the sense that half the appeal is her title, her authority. She’s not sure what the other half is yet. 

“No more extra credit assignments, then?” She wonders when she found a smirk to be so alluring. Not that she’ll ever tell him. 

Gerri reaches her hand out, touches his cheek, wipes away the barest drop of vodka from his lip, nail just scraping against his lower lip, pulling it down. He keeps his mouth slack at the touch, her caress so soft against his stubble. “No more,” she says. “Everything on the up and up so we don’t get fucked by someone we don’t want to be fucked by.”

Her hand once more safely back on her side of the table, she downs the rest of her drink. “Nothing while I’m your professor.” She says it clearly, with certainty, no joke at the edge, no softening words. It’s the one rule she has, the one she’s not interested in breaking. He nods once, twice, his hair flopping against his forehead. 

“Grades in, dick out,” he says, and Gerri doesn’t stop the laugh from burbling out. 

“That’s the basic idea, anyway.” She stands, wraps her shawl around her shoulders once more. Roman looks at her with expectant eyes, with bated breath. There’s something about his awe, his blatant adoration, that softens her heart. His head tips up, and she leans in, drawn in like a fish on a hook, smells his cologne, can feel his breath against her cheek.

Then reason comes flooding back, sense coming back to her brain, and she ducks her head, turns away at the last minute, pulls back. “Good night, Roman,” she says, her voice quiet, and she knows that now he can see the red on her cheeks. There’s an even footing now, for all that nothing about this feels fair.

-

Somehow, they manage to settle back into routine, mouthing off charmingly during class, spending off hours in the chair in Gerri’s office. He’s deceptively capable at acting normal, sometimes enough that she wonders if she’s made it all up, if the drinks and the flirting was all a dream. 

And then she’ll settle in for the night, and her phone will buzz with a text message. Sometimes it’s a countdown to the day grades are due, innocuous words laden with subtext. 

_Thirteen days._

The end of the semester seems to be barreling towards them, faster than it’s ever been. There’s an anxiety about it, a worry that expectations won’t be met, that disappointments will be felt.

**Surprised you’re not going for a math degree with those numerical skills.**

** __ ** _But then you wouldn’t have had me in class._

**There’s a chance I’d survive somehow.**

_Not much fun though._

She texts back the thinking emoji, for all that it’s a true statement.

_Sleep well, teach_

His favorite thing to send at seven o’clock in the evening, as if she’s tucked in bed, hot water bottle at her feet, mystery novel in hand. 

**Don’t stay up too late. Sleeping through class is ill-advised.**

_I’ve got an in with the professor._

That’s as close as they ever come. That’s when she puts down her phone, and goes to bed.

She emails the students out a study guide for the final exam, vocabulary and sample questions, offers to host a study group in the library one evening. She almost expects the ping of her phone minutes later, Roman’s name flashing across the screen. 

_How do I schedule a private study session_

She’s thankful he didn’t respond to the email, didn’t put it into words on the campus email system. She imagines a world where he accidentally clicks “reply all,” where every one in the class knows, where the world blows up. 

But he’s become a caretaker of this thing they’re growing, a tender gardener wrapped in a grotty college student. For all that he pushes her buttons when he can.

He doesn’t end up coming to the study session, but he doesn’t need to. He’s got a ninety-five percent in the class, understanding things beyond the rest of them, clearly a junior majoring in the subject versus the first years there for the credit. It would have been a waste of his time to sit in that room, if the end goal was just to make eyes at her the whole time. And, if nothing else over the last fifteen weeks, he’s demonstrated an understanding of his time’s worth. Her’s too. 

Roman studies in her office, head bent over his laptop as he scrolls through his notes, flips through pages of books. He asks her clarification questions for his other classes, seems to trust her to have a general knowledge of so much. She sees a wonderment in his eyes, an implicit care for her, for the words coming out of her mouth, whether she’s flirting or telling him the basic tenets of Victorian political systems. 

“History of Politics is such a fucking bore,” he says, slouching back in the chair, tilting his head towards the ceiling, eyes closed. 

Gerri feels a certain sadness steal across her heart as she watches him, a sadness that this lanky manchild won’t have a reason to sit in her office next semester, that she won’t see him in the classroom, loitering by the door, waiting for her to leave so he can walk her out under the pretense of asking a question. 

He’s the kind of student she loves to have, the kind that comes along once in a blue moon. He challenges her thinking, for all that he likes to annoy her too. She’s still staring at him when his eyes open again. 

“What?” he asks, a hand instinctively going up to rub at his face, 

“Just thinking about the end of the semester,” she says, practically predicts the smirk that tips his lips. “Just hope you manage to pass.”

His head tilts back again, smile still on his face. “I think it’ll be okay.”

-

Grading is, perhaps, one of Gerri’s favorite things. The ease of right and wrong answers, red ticks, spending a little longer on the short essays, though it’s clear who knows what they’re saying and who’s working their way to a rambling sort of answer, hoping if they throw enough into the blue book, eventually they’ll happen upon the correct idea. 

Roman breezes through the test, like Gerri knew he would. 

And two days later, he breezes into her office, scarf wrapped around his neck, bag slung over his shoulder. “Leaving in a few hours,” he says. “Home for Christmas and all that. Happy families for two weeks.” She can see the tension in his body, the veneer of his words hiding the unhappiness below. 

There’s only one thing she can think to say.

“I submitted my grades yesterday,” she says. “You passed. Barely.” They both know it’s a lie, knows that when he puts his nose to the grindstone, he gets the work done. And they both know what she’s really saying, the words laden with so much meaning for them both. His grade is out of her hands now. 

He has the softest smile on his face, his eyes so dark when they look at her. The expression makes something well up inside her, something she’s resisted for so long. 

She leans forward, presses her lips to his, the barest hint of a kiss. “Be seeing you, Mr. Roy.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did you just want a slow ratchet up to the top of the roller coaster? I HOPE SO
> 
> thanks as always to people for being NICE and for people who talk to me about succession every damn day of my life

It takes twenty four hours for Roman to text her. Less than a day at home, and she can practically hear the flailing in the words on her phone. 

_They want me to go turkey hunting. A manly bonding thing._

**I didn’t think that was the traditional Christmas meat.**

_The Roys don’t comply with tradition. Ham and venison are also present. Why have one overlarge plate of meat when you can have three?_

**Do you have to shoot the deer too?**

_It’s flattering you think I have that skill._

**I assumed you’d have a servant or something that would do the actual shooting for you**

_Glen has the holiday off. Responsible for fending for ourselves in this frigid landscape._

**How brave.**

She’s seen photos of the Roy estate, looming in the New England countryside, imagines fireplaces in every room, is certain that whether or not Glen is real, there are at least ten people tasked with keeping the family warm and fed, holiday or not. 

The winter break is always Gerri’s favorite time of year, snow falling and warm drinks, curled up on her couch. She gets too antsy over the summer break, months of unstructured time looming, but the three weeks of winter that she gets to spend away from campus - that’s the perfect amount of time. 

She tweaks her syllabi occasionally, adjusts deadlines and readings, but mostly enjoys the solitude, enjoys days where she doesn’t have to open her mouth to speak, no lectures to give, no one coming to her door to complain about a bad grade when they left half the answers blank. Her ex-husband calls once, a perfunctory holiday greeting from Baird Kellman the only real tradition she has. 

And now she has Roman texting her every day. Sometimes it’s short, just a quick “Help, I’m going to die out here!” and she just sends back a thumbs up. Sometimes it’s a longer diatribe on the torture of spending time with the Roys. And sometimes just a quick picture, usually blurry and out of focus, she has to squint to make out what it is he wants her to see. That usually gets an eyeroll sent back to him, nothing less, nothing more. She’s learned that he likes it better when she doesn’t give into his dramatic fits, when she stays distant and aloof. She’s seen the glint in his eye when she’s rude, the slight flush in his pale cheeks. She knows what’s there. 

She gets one email from him, a reply to the all-class missive she sent out, reminding them to check their grades, wishing them a good holiday. It took two weeks, but he answered, a brown-nosing email from anyone else, but she can imagine the smirk on his face as she reads the words.

_Thanks for a good semester, Dr Kellman. Nice to finally take one of your classes. I know I will be coming to you in the future. Have a good break. Be seeing you._

The last line, the echo of her words to him. It makes her whole body flush, to think that he’s kept those parting words in his own mind too. 

And then he calls her, on Christmas Eve, and she can’t decide if it’s flattering how much he wants to talk to her, or insulting that he assumes she’ll be available whenever he wants to talk.

“What do you want, Mr. Roy?” she asks, leaning more towards annoyance than that childish glee, that embarrassing happiness at the thought of him calling her.

“Has anyone ever died from too much exposure to family?” They’re both beyond pleasantries, it seems. It’s almost a relief.

“I believe you build up a tolerance in your youth, that’s how you get through adulthood.” She stopped going home for Christmas a while ago, when she got divorced, when her parents sided with Baird, when she decided her career was the most important, when she moved for a professorship. She spent the holiday writing an article that turned into a book that made a small splash on the political science scene. 

“It’s worn off. Kendall is practically trying to measure our dicks at the dinner table and Shiv’s been taking too many feminist classes in college and keeps telling us we’re all pigs.”

“Well, you are a pig, Roman.” It’s easy to slip into using his first name, to drop the title, to take him out of the box of student and put him into another box, one she isn’t quite sure what to name yet.

“Yeah?” There’s a breathless quality to his voice that makes her heartbeat quicken a little, makes her own breath come a little short.

“Calling up your old professor instead of spending time with your family, sending text messages of debatable maturity for two weeks, what else would you call yourself?” She stares at her fingers, sliding one nail under her thumbnail, cleaning out nonexistent dirt, thinking she might have to schedule a manicure before the next semester starts. 

He sent her a selfie just yesterday, astride a horse, captioned with a groan-inducing “always been good at mounting” that Gerri will never admit made her smile fondly, too.

“Maybe, oh, I don’t know, a gentleman of questionable morals?” She can hear the slide of innuendo in his voice, can picture the way his mouth moves around the words, the tilt of his head as he waits for her to respond.

“I think we can both agree on questionable morals. Gentleman is debatable.” She leans back in her chair, head tilted against the back cushion, legs curled up on the seat. There’s a cozy familiarity here, she’s surprised at how easy it is to talk to him, to exist in this moment, where neither of them have roles to fill.

“You’re not that old,” he says, the comment coming from nowhere. Gerri blinks a little, trying to catch up, to rewind, to find where he is.

“Thank you?” is what she settles on.

“You said you were my old professor. You’re not that old.” He sounds shy, embarrassed. 

“I meant old as in former, but I’m delighted to know your thoughts on my age.” She knows she’s smiling, feels the warmth from the conversation as easily as if she had a fire going, logs crackling.

“You know what I mean. Like, you’re old, obviously, but, like, not gross.” She has to suppress a laugh, has to press her hand to her mouth to stopper the sound.

“I take it back, you’re definitely a gentleman,” she says. “Good night, Roman.” It’s firm, it’s kind, it’s like a hand on a shoulder, squeezing gently.

“Good night, G-,” there’s a pause, she can hear Roman’s intake of breath. “Good night, teach. Merry Christmas.” The phone goes dead.

-

The start of the spring semester is always better than the fall, Gerri finds. Familiar first-year faces, happy to have a class with her again, a chance to teach courses related to her independent research, the promise of spring break in just a few months. There’s more hope in the air in January, a new year bringing with it promise.

She doesn’t see Roman for the first week of classes, reminds herself not to be disappointed, that she has more in her life than a twitchy twenty-one year old with a slouching problem. It doesn’t stop her from thinking that the chair just left of the middle and three rows back as “his” chair, hopes that the eager sophomore sitting there in her Mass Media and Politics class will fulfill at least some of Roman’s potential.

Despite the fact that he spent a good deal of the previous semester sitting in her office, it still feels like a surprise when he comes slouching in during the second week of classes, slides into his usual chair and waits for her to look up from her computer.

She finishes the sentence, tapping the period decisively, and then turns to him, looks over the edge of her glasses. “You aren’t in my class this semester,” she says.

“But I brought you coffee,” he answers and hands her the still warm paper cup, and she just knows he’s put in cream and sugar the way she likes it. “And Frank is an idiot.”

“Dr. Vernon,” she corrects gently, not quite able to let him be glibly disrespectful in her office. “Isn’t his class happening right now?”

Roman looks down at his hands. “_Dr. Vernon_ is an idiot. His syllabus is narrow and he assigned his _own _book and I’m not giving that fucker any royalties and he just expects us to spend class telling him how nice his dick is while he slaps us in the face with it.” 

Gerri means back a little at the onslaught, blinks once, twice. 

“And he’s boring.” 

She can’t argue with that, has had to prop herself up during his department presentations more than once. 

“Be that as it may, Mr. Roy,” there’s that glint in his eye, “I’m not sure I can condone skipping classes and spending the time in my office.”

There’s a long pause, like he’s waiting to see if she’s actually going to throw him out, but she just smiles, small, almost hidden, and turns back to her computer, says nothing more, and he pulls a heavy book from his bag. It’s nice to have him there, when all’s said and done, and he can probably get just as much out of reading the textbook as he can sitting in Frank’s class.

Ten minutes go by in companionable silence.

“Anyway, should we, you know, like. Go on a date?” Gerri’s fingers fall in the keys, a smattering of letters appearing on the screen, and she turns to look at him once more. He’s staring hard at the book in his lap, won’t meet her eyes.

“Excuse me?” she says, because while she knows what she heard, she can’t quite be certain. They had that drink, that one drink, and perhaps she might have kissed him, that one kiss, but. Well, she’s not sure what he’s after.

“You, me, spaghetti. Breadsticks. Whatever. Like those two dogs sharing a plate. Meatballs.” His shoulders are hunched, his voice so studiously casual that it sounds like it’s hurting him.

“Meatballs.” She can’t remember the last time she ate a meatball, wonders if Roman’s idea of a romantic date is Olive Garden, if being so rich his whole life has warped his whole brain.

Roman shuts his book, the cover making a louder noise than he intends, his whole body starting at the sound. “Uh, well. A lot to think about, so I’ll just...let you….think about it. Mull it over.” He doesn’t even bother putting his textbook back in his bag, just practically launches himself from the chair and leaves her office, leaves her sitting there wondering if it’s the best romantic overture she’s ever had or the worst.

She can’t stop her brain from replaying the question over and over again, staring blankly in front of her, able to keep up the pretense of work if nothing else. It’s almost a relief when Frank pops his head into her office, hand gripping the doorframe.

“I see Roman spent my class in your office,” he says, and she doesn’t ask how he knows, wouldn’t be surprised if the department student aide has been tasked with being Frank’s spy or some other ridiculous task.

“It’s not my fault you’ve managed to make even the analysis of the civil wars phenomenon boring.” She stares at him, doesn’t care that he has seniority over her, doesn’t care that he’s hovering dangerously close around the secret of whatever it is she’s doing with Roman.

“Well, perhaps you can spend your cozy sessions holed up here reminding him about my strict attendance policy and let him know that he’s lost participation points for one day.” He’s trying time be snide and Gerri can’t even feign interest to tell him that Roman most likely doesn’t care at all about participation points.

“I’m surprised there’s not a whole chapter on it in that book of yours you made students buy. Sales getting thin?” Her brow is arched, her hackles raised, and she’s in no mood to let him slide. She can tell he wants to tell her to fuck off, that the only thing stopping him is the very public hall he’s standing in.

Instead he just huffs, hand dropping from the doorframe. “Stop letting him loiter in your office instead of attending the classes his parents pay for,” he says.

“Make your classes worthwhile for your students,” she volleys back as he retreats, wonders if she’ll have an email from the department chair later about proper decorum. It’d be the first one in fifteen years, perhaps she’s due.

-

Roman does not stop spending time in her office, misses Frank’s class once a week at least, but spends the hour reading the textbook, asking Gerri questions about it. She wonders if the registrar would consider it an independent study, even says as much to Roman, if only as a suggestion to stop Frank from sending weekly emails about his declining participation grade and CCing Gerri.

“I’ll take the C or whatever Dr. Vernon ends up giving me,” he says, a little defensively. She can see him stiffen up, flicking back and forth pages as he tries to get his head around the latest concept. 

Realization dawns. He’s keeping her from being in an authority position again, from being responsible for his grades, for something that could be misconstrued. For all that he walks around in an idiot suit, he does show brief flashes of kindness, of maturity.

He hasn’t mentioned the idea of a date again, and Gerri wonders if her sort of bewildered silence left him feeling defeated in the matter. She also doesn’t know what she’d tell him if he asked again, feels grateful for the time to, as he said, mull it over.

He pokes around her desk sometimes, when he’s bored, or avoiding homework. When he finds the faculty invitation to the winter board reception, he waves it in her face.

“You go to these things?” he asks, and she has to grab his wrist to stop his hand from moving, to even see what it is he’s waving around. She releases him quickly, though she can still feel the warmth of her skin against her palm. Roman’s cheeks are slightly pink, and she coughs, decides the best way forward is to pretend it didn’t happen.

“I go to one or two a year, but I try to get out of it when I can. The drinks are overpriced.” She hates the formal pomp of faculty parties, of everyone waving their CVs around, comparing publication records and seeing who can get the highest donation for their department from a board member. 

Roman just hums and lets the subject drop, asks her a question about political philosophy that actually makes her stop and think for a minute. 

She doesn’t think about his question again until she’s dressing for the very party he asked about. She doesn’t have a conference or a trip planned, was cornered in the faculty lounge and had her attendance politely requested in a way that made her feel certain RSVPing in the negative would have consequences.

The dress code is always a matter of concern, how much glitz and glamor, how much tweed, how many elbow patches. She picks out a dress, black, low enough cut that it’ll get some attention from the old white hairs that populate these parties, high enough that there’s still the suggestion of decorousness. 

The silver shawl she chooses catches the low light in the reserved hall, glittering as she walks, and she knows she’s caught the gaze of more than a few people as she makes her way to the bar. An older man slides up next to her, neat goatee, white hair combed back. 

“What’s the drink tonight?” he asks, and he sounds and looks so familiar but Gerri can’t quite put her finger on it. 

“Whisky,” she says, “take your pick.” She knows he must be a member of the board, that she’s seen him around at other parties and that’s most likely why he looks like someone she’s met before. The whisky is a test, to see what he orders, too high and he’s just trying to impress her, too low and he has poor taste. Just hitting that middle-range says he’s wealthy and smart, and that’s the kind of board member Gerri has time for.

“Gerri Kellman,” she says, holding out her hand, clutch squeezed between her elbow and her waist. 

“Logan Roy,” he says, and as his fingers close around hers, she knows why he looks familiar. She’s seen him on the news, in the paper. And in the background of selfies from his son. “I believe you’ve had my boy in class? He mentioned something about a professor -thought he said Killman, but must have heard wrong.”

“Or not. Nicknames fly around college campuses, especially when students don’t like their grades,” she says, feeling distinctly wrong-footed and trying not to show it. The whisky he picked is good, and she takes too big a sip, feels the burning at her throat, coughs. 

“Ah, excuse me,” she rasps, voice hoarse as she tries to regain her composure. She points towards some point near the door, gives a small wave in thanks for the drink, and practically flees from Roman’s father.

She’s finishing the whisky in a quiet corner when Jamie Laird comes over, an asshole from the Accounting department she made the mistake of sleeping with when she started at the school, an ill-conceived night that he’s never let go of, and one she’s done her best to forget. 

There’s a sense of desperation that comes over her as her glass empties and as Jamie continues to leer at her, making her regret wearing anything but a turtleneck. It’s a relief when there’s a tap on her shoulder, something else to think about, a cessation in whatever mindless drivel is spouting from Jamie’s mouth.

“Dr. Kellman?” It’s Roman, standing there, his father’s tagalong to the function and now she knows why he asked. He looks nicer than she’s ever seen him, wonders if his dad made him shave. He drops a wink at her, sly as a fox, and reaches across her to shake Jamie’s hand, a technique he must have learned from a childhood in a boardroom.

“Roman Roy. Nice to meet you. If I could steal Dr. Kellman, there’s just a thing we need to talk about? You know political science. A never-stopping machine!” It’s pure bullshit from his mouth but Jamie can’t react quickly enough to say anything, and Roman’s already steering Gerri to the other side of the room, back towards the bar. His hand just ghosts at her back and she has to push down the thrum of pleasure at the sensation of his fingers touching her just there.

“Who was that asshole?” he asks, leaning against the counter, waiting for the bartender to come by.

“Jamie _Laird_,” she says, emphasizing the syllables with disdain. “Accounting fucker.” Apparently she’ll allow disrespect when it’s not a member of her department. She doesn’t want Roman to know she slept with him, doesn’t want to deal with adolescent jealous or macho posturing. “I met your father,” she says, and that makes a Roman grimace.

The bartender comes up, saving them both. “Vodka gimlet,” Roman says, holding up two fingers, and Gerri doesn’t have the heart to correct him, touched that he remembered the drink from those months ago, even if it’s not what she’s drinking tonight.

“He says you mentioned me,” she can’t resist teasing him, tinged with actual curiosity about what he might’ve said.

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch, he just asked who I was taking classes from, since he donated money for a whole new poli sci wing or whatever. Wants to know the department is up to scratch, I guess.” He shrugs, scuffs his show against the floor, hand in his pocket, fiddling with his money clip.

Gerri smirks. “What if I told you I wasn’t wearing panties?” she asks, dry, lips not even twitching up. Roman’s mouth goes slack as their drinks are slid across the bar, and she just laughs. “Something for you to think about the next time you’re bored in Dr. Vernon’s class.”

His wide-eyed silence is gratifying as she takes a sip of the cocktail, cold and fresh against her lips, her tongue. Maybe she was more in the mood for a gimlet after all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we've all seen the photo, and it's cover art for this au!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The rest of the semester barrels on in sort of a blur, the way it always does, Spring Break coming too soon, a break in the flow of classes and reading that always puts Gerri on her heels a bit. She grouses to Roman about how students are the lucky ones, going on trips, seeing the world, and all she’s doing in grading term papers. 

“Isn’t it your fault for assigning them?” he asks, in that smirking way of his, and all she has the energy for is rolling her eyes. “Like you just asked for an excuse to stay home, but now it’s all ‘oh no, poor Dr. Kellman, so lonely and sad, just shitty student papers to keep her company.’” He mimes wiping tears away from his eyes. She supposes it’s better than the world’s smallest violin. 

“I’m not lonely,” she says softly, but Roman isn’t really listening, and it isn’t really true. 

“So you don’t, like, fuck off to Myrtle Beach for spring break? No wet t-shirt contests for Killman?” He fiddles with a pen on her desk. 

“Not after I won the championship in ‘86 and decided to retire from competing professionally,” she says, her voice oh-so-casual, and she doesn’t miss the way he freezes, the pen dropping to the floor. It rolls under her chair, she stops it with her foot. “I don’t ‘fuck off’ anywhere. Never seen a reason to.” She hates how boring that makes her sound. 

“There’s plenty of reasons to,” he says, head bouncing up, hands on the edge of her desk. “Parties where you don’t speak the same fucking language as anyone else in the room, or, like, that feeling you get when you’ve flown to so many different places so fast, you don’t _actually_ know what time it is. Oh, and hotel pillows. I love hotel pillows. Can’t get enough of them.” 

Gerri really doesn’t know whether or not he’s being serious. 

That night, she books a vacation home in Nantucket for two weeks in the summer, right on the beach, nothing but blue sky and sandy beaches. She bets it rains, but at least she’ll be away. It’s nice to have something to look forward to, besides semesters and holidays and the few faculty parties where they serve wine. 

The idea of a real and true vacation buoys her through the last month and a half of school. She says something about it to Roman, that she’s decided to “fuck off” somewhere for a few weeks in July and he punches the air. “Excellent news, Dr. Kellman! Make sure you do cocaine off a stripper’s stomach!” 

“Probably not,” she says, eyebrow arched. 

“Probably not,” he agrees. “But I’m glad you’re doing something, Doc. I’d hate to think of you laying around all summer, just waiting for me to text.” There are infinite terms of endearment he’s come to use for her, and it just makes her wonder how her name will sound coming from his mouth. 

She waits for him to press her about where she’s going, to make fun of her for going to Massachusetts, when he’s most likely jet-setting off to far more fabulous locales. But he just slouches in her chair, paging through the book in his lap, and she can’t decide if she’s hurt by his lack of curiosity. There’s a part of her, she supposes, that could imagine a world where he invited himself along, the same way he invites himself into her office every day. 

The idea of summer makes her itchier than normal, more wrong-footed. Gerri has friends, colleagues from the school, people in her neighborhood, a group of women that meets for cocktails once a month. But Roman is something entirely different, and the thought of three months without seeing him seems like a very long time. At least she knows he’ll text. Maybe she can even get up the nerve to send a selfie. Her first one. 

She’s proctoring her last final when Roman pokes his head into the classroom, sees all the heads looking down at blue books, pencils moving, and Gerri rolls her eyes, quietly pushing herself up from the desk at the front of the room. She gives her class the once over, not a single person even looks up as she steps out into the hallway. 

“I’m, uh, heading out,” he says, standing a little too close, but she knows the hallway is empty, that she’s one of the last professors still showing up this week, only a few exams left before the college empties completely. She can smell his cologne. It isn’t great. Maybe a present for next Christmas, and her stomach lurches a little at the thought. 

“Have a good summer, Mr. Roy,” she says, ducking her head a little, her back against the wall, strand of hair falling from her loose bun. His hand is there, to tuck it behind her ear, fingers lingering slightly, the touch making her heart pound, and self-preservation kicks in. She moves away from him, a step back towards the open door of the classroom. “I’ll see you in September.” 

Roman’s mouth moves wordlessly, like he’s trying to think of a witty comeback or something clever for her to remember him by, and she doesn’t wait to hear it, puts her professorial demeanor back on, and enters the class once more, students still working silently, nothing but the sound of pencils scratching to hide the sound of her beating heart.

-

The house is straight out of a Nancy Meyers movie, grey slats and flatboard trim, a weathered porch with white square posts holding the roof up, and windows everywhere, overlooking the water, an old staircase leading down to the beach. The air smells of salt and fish and warm sun, and Gerri tilts her head towards the sky, trying to take it all in. It’s too big for one person, but she doesn’t mind it, takes the bedroom with the best view and wakes up to the sound of waves through her open window, curtains floating in the breeze. It’s idyllic, and she can’t believe it’s taken her this long to escape. 

She swims in the ocean, suns on the beach, sits out on the porch swing. Not that many people come by, the path and stairs next to the house leading to a sparsely populated beach. She feels different out here, freer, lighter. Even her clothes are different, her suits and skirts left behind in favor of linen pants and light, flowing blouses that catch the wind. Her skin darkens ever so slightly, her shoulders turn pink, and she can see the tan lines around her collarbone. Vacation settles into her bones. 

Every morning, her internal clock wakes her up by six o’clock, too many years spent with one schedule, and she rolls out of bed, the coffee machine already plugging away. She holds a mug between her hands as she watches the sun rise from the porch swing, enjoys the silence of it all. 

And then, one morning -

“Will you fuckfaces slow down? No one has _ever _needed to stomp down a beach.” She knows that voice, knows it well. It carries through the quiet morning, and she wonders how many people are being woken by his dulcet tones. A feminine voice responds, words Gerri can’t quite make out, another deeper male voice answers. “Fuck it, I’m going up and I’m going to eat all the pancakes before you get back.” 

His voice is loud enough that there’s no mistaking which stairs he’s walking up, and Gerri doesn’t know whether to run inside or stand her ground. The decision is made for her, as Roman takes the stairs two at a time, and she sees his bobbing head come up over the wooden slats. 

He stops at the top, stops when he catches sight of her, mouth open slightly. 

And then his face splits into a grin, goofy and ridiculous, and he gives her a half wave. “_This_ is where you decided to run away to? _Here_?” He’s bounding up the path and onto the porch before she can say anything. He slings himself next to her on the swing, making it rock, and it feels just the same as when he slouches into her office. “How’s the beach, teach?” 

“Oh, points off for a terrible rhyme,” she groans, sips at her coffee. Roman turns to look at her, really look at her, one knee going up on the wooden swing, one arm stretched across the back, fingers almost brushing against her shoulder. 

The fingers of his other hand touch his nose in a way that makes her reach up and touch her own face. “Is there something there?” she asks, wondering if there’s some crustiness by her eyes, some sleep she hasn’t wiped away, maybe even a wayward trail of drool from the night before. 

“Freckles,” he says, no witty remark, no friendly riposte. “You have freckles.”

She’s grateful that her sun-tanned skin can hide some of her rising blush, wants to duck her head, hide her face from Roman’s gaze, which is so strong and steady, a sense of wonder in his eyes, like he’s seeing her for the first time. 

“Come to breakfast,” he blurts out. “The whole fucking family is up here on some godawful compound and it’d be nice to have an ally in the room. I’ve had enough of the fucking round robin of shittiness at the table. You can be a buffer. Like a calm, you know, implacable, boring shield. Or whatever.” She can’t stop the smile at his rambling, never sure if he’s trying to compliment her or if the words just come out.

“What a generous offer. And so flattering.” Her mug is cooling between her hands, and she considers the invitation. “Let me get dressed.” She doubts striped flannels would be appropriate for a spread at the Roy’s table. 

“Need any help?” He tilts his head to her, drums his fingers against the wooden swing, always skirting the line between joking and not. 

“I think I can manage, but I’ll keep you posted.” She doesn’t run up the stairs, but she does walk up them faster, hand gripping the railing, legs feeling a little unsteady, like she’s a teenager off to meet her boyfriend’s parents, despite the fact that she’s much too old to be nervous, and Roman isn’t anything like a boyfriend. 

She thinks she’s chosen well when Roman continues his trend of staring at her, just dark, moody eyes and parted lips. Tugging at the hem of her blouse, a v-neck showing off her freckled collarbone, she says, “Well, let’s get a move on. I hear there’s pancakes.” 

Roman flushes, aware now she heard his yelling from the beach. He stands abruptly, the swing moving backward, then hitting the back of his knees, making them buckle slightly, and Gerri is there, a hand on his arm, making sure he doesn’t fall. 

That soft smile that he gets, the one that makes her heart stutter, graces his lips, then morphs into a smirk. “Can’t keep your hands off me, can you? I’m telling.” An empty threat in a childish tone, enough to make her snort. She squeezes his forearm gently, then moves away, lets him lead the way down the stairs, learns that the Roys are just two houses from hers, amazed at how close he’s been, and she didn’t know. 

HIs shoulders seem to get closer to his ears the closer they get to the front door, and she wonders if he regrets the invitation. She touches his arm again, just gently, but doesn’t say anything, doesn’t want to offer to leave, doesn’t want to fill him with doubt or worry when he’s already filled to the brim. 

“Right. Pancakes. Booze. Deep-rooted trauma. Maybe even some scrambled eggs. What isn’t to love?” He opens the door, and she dutifully follows behind, into a house much bigger than the one she’s renting, she doesn’t even want to guess how many rooms stretch above her, around her. 

There are people picking around the table of food, a young red-haired woman she’s guessing is Siobhan, two men she thinks must be Connor and Kendall, isn’t one hundred percent sure who is who. And Logan Roy, already seated at the table, a heaping plate of food in front of him. He looks up as Roman comes in, catches sight of Gerri, and she can see the way his face changes at a stranger in his home. In that moment, she understands the intimidation, the weight of the Roy patriarch. 

“Who’s this?” he asks, gruff, a piece of egg caught in his beard. “Picking up fucking strays, Romulus?” 

“We’ve met before, Mr. Roy,” she intercedes, feels Roman tense up beside her. “I’m Dr. Kellman, one of Roman’s political science professors.” She doesn’t make a move to shake his hand, doesn’t move at all, caught in a staredown with one of the most powerful leaders of corporate America. As a response, Logan just huffs, grunts, takes another bite of breakfast. 

Whether it’s approval or not, Gerri isn’t sure, just moves to the buffet of food and takes a plate, Roman behind her. 

“Hot for teacher, Roman?” the woman - Shiv - asks, with a poke to his shoulder.

He waves a piece of bacon at her. “Oh, yeah, Shiv, we just make out furiously in her office and like, I get extra credit when I make her come real loud. Jesus.” Gerri studiously looks down at her plate, wills the blush away from her cheeks, years of being poker faced during faculty meetings coming in handy at this exact moment. 

She fills her plate with two of the promised pancakes, a spoonful of fruit, doesn’t want too much, wants to be able to escape if needed. Always has an exit strategy, even if her pants don’t have pockets, allowing for a fake emergency pockets. She’s already going through excuses - the oven’s on, meeting a friend, an appointment, anything. The pancakes are fluffy, and the syrup tastes fresh, and she’s relieved to have this one morning free of sad granola and yogurt at the kitchen counter. 

“So, Dr. Kellman. What kind of politics do you do?” Shiv asks, sitting across from Gerri, the smirk on her face so much like her brother’s, like she’s giving a test, like she’s waiting for the right answer. 

“United States, mostly. We’re fucking up enough over here, there’s always something to talk about.” She chews slowly, watches Shiv, eyes darting to Logan, very clearly pretending not to listen to the conversation. “I practiced law for five years, decided every lawyer was a shithead, and I’d rather mold the young minds making the laws rather than practicing them.” She spears a sausage with her fork. 

“It’s Gerri, right?” Logan pipes up from his seat, like a king speaking down from his throne. “You were at that, what? That faculty fucking fundraiser thing? I bought you a whiskey and you almost choked.” 

Roman’s eyes are wide; she never told him she’d met his father, even briefly. But she turns from Roman, hand sliding under the table to rest against his leg gently, a slight squeeze to his knee, as she nods to Logan. “An embarrassment I’ve yet to live down. Believe me, I was raised to hold my liquor.” She raises a champagne flute full of mimosa in a toast, takes a throaty sip as if to prove her point. 

“What is it they say -” Kendall joins the fray, and Gerri understands how it can be hard to be in this family, how every conversation becomes a competition. She understands why Roman slouches, why he holds his body like he’s trying not to take up space, like he doesn’t want to be noticed. She wonders why he let her notice him. “Those who can’t do, teach?” 

“Oh, fuck off,” Roman says, throws a middle finger at his older brother. “She’s smarter than your left nut.” Gerri clears her throat, stares at her plate, doesn’t know whether to laugh or scream, thinks this must be how he feels all the time. 

“My left nut? Really? Not the right one?” Gerri gets the sense that Kendall grabs his crotch, but the table blocks her view. Roman just echoes his words back in a mocking voice and rolls his eyes, spears a sausage with his fork and bites into it with a certain vigor. 

Shiv coughs out a “pigs” and flicks her hair over her shoulder. And Logan watches everything in front of him, like he’s at a movie, like he’s Caesar and his children are below him, fighting in the arena. 

In the end, she doesn’t need to excuse herself, Roman gets them both away from the brunch table, cups her elbow and takes her up from the table. Says something about going to the library, such an obvious excuse that Gerri is sure someone will say something. And instead, they all just ignore him, the third son, the forgotten child, and it’s easy enough to slip out the door. 

“I’m thinking about that whole grad school thing,” Roman says, when they’re out on the beach again, when the wind whips at her hair, the sand between her toes, shoes held by her fingers. “Professor Roman Roy. No fucking way.” He pushes his hair back from his face, skin still pale, like he hasn’t been outside this whole time. Gerri thinks about taking his hand in hers, looks out at the ocean instead. 

“You could do it. If you applied yourself.” The unspoken chastisement is there. Going to classes. Doing the work for every professor. Not fucking off in her office, trying to make her laugh, rearranging all her pens. 

“You think?” He seems surprised to have someone believe in him. She nods, smiles. “You’ll have to write me a reference letter. There’s no fucking way Frank will.”

“Oh, the horror!” She puts a hand to her head, feigns fainting, and Roman pushes her with his shoulder, more than a nudge, and she takes a few sideways steps, feet hitting the water as it rushes up the shore. A laugh over takes her, giddiness at the surprise wetness between her toes, at Roman standing there with a little smile on his face, at the ridiculousness of everything. Just tilts her head back and laughs, face catching the sun. 

It’s the best vacation she’s ever had. 

-

Roman works diligently through the fall, spends less time with Gerri in person, more time texting, sometimes calls her late at night. He emails her too, but seems to understand something about her boundaries and restricts those to questions about classes or graduate school applications. And promptly follows up every email with a text reminding her how fully ridiculous he is. 

_If I can get my dad to donate a building to Harvard, do I get in? Scholarships?_

**A definite maybe.**

There’s an afternoon, before the winter break, when he comes by, a pleasant surprise now that he’s less of a fixture in the chair by her desk. He pokes around her desk, altogether too comfortable in her presence, too willing to be nosy. There’s a new framed photo by her desk, one he took, of her laughing in the sun at Nantucket. He sent it to her in the middle of the night in August, and it made her heart swell, that he took it, that he kept it. She printed it out to remind her of him, to remind her of the day he talked about his future for the first time. He picks it up, doesn’t say anything, and she just waits for him to say whatever it is he’s going to say.

“I’m not your problem anymore,” is what he has to say, finally, and at long last, putting an envelope down in front of her. Without opening it, she can tell what it is, sees the Harvard seal in the corner, and Gerri thinks she sees a little sadness in Roman’s eyes, more than usually lingers there. She can’t stop herself from reaching up from where she sits, touching his chin, and he looks down at her, so dark, so wild. 

“I think you’ll always be a little bit my problem,” she says. She chucks his chin, turns away, but Roman surprises her, stops her, hands on her arms, bringing her to a standing position, her body moving with no resistance. His hands move to frame her face, like he has to hold her in position or she’ll run away. “Roman,” she says, a little warning in her voice, and he drops away, the sad look back on his face. She nods towards her open office door, always the knowledge that anyone might walk by, anyone might see them. 

She’s never been an adventurer - there’s a reason it took her so long to take a simple vacation - but there’s something about Roman that gives her dangerous edge, the desire to be a thrill seeker. For so long, she’s been dependable. Boring. Like a filing cabinet for the department, no waves, no trouble. But something takes over, something makes her close the door to her office, to click the lock with practiced fingers, and when she looks over her shoulder at Roman, his cheeks are flushed and his mouth is open. 

“Well?” she says, and it’s enough to catalyze him into movement, pressing her against the door, the first touch of his lips awkward, unstudied, and _young_. But she waits him out, lets him find his way, because that’s what she does. His hand is once more against her cheek, surprisingly soft, but cold, almost clammy, his fingers shaking slightly and she’s surprised at how nervous he is, for all his bravura. 

He pauses, stops, leans his forehead against Gerri’s, breathing more heavily than usual, eyes closed, and she can just barely see how his lashes curl against his cheeks. It’s her turn, now, maybe, her turn to nudge his face with her nose, to press her lips to his, just so, to show him what she likes. When she nips at his bottom lip with her teeth, he groans, just a little, and she smiles into his mouth. 

Her hands dig into his shoulders, nails pressing into his sweater, and she slides her tongue between his lips. He makes a muffled noise and she doesn’t stop. His hands start to move again, holding her waist, underneath her blazer, his fingers so close to the hem of her shirt, so close to her bare skin. 

His mouth moves from hers, kisses her jaw, right below her ear, his tongue darting to taste her there, and her eyes close at the sensation, a hand coming up to thread through his hair, to encourage his gentle explorations above her collar. One of his hands tangles in her necklace and he pulls slightly, directs her back to his lips, kisses her like he means it, like the way she’s wanted to be kissed for a year and a half, and she can’t think of any reason to stop. 

They back against her desk, her hip resting just on the wooden edge and she thinks of how easy it would be to let him spread her across it, pushing essays and pencils to the floor, to let him have his way with her, to see what he’ll do. And then his thumb brushes against her stomach, the slight tickle making her jump, making her remember where they are, who they are. What they are. 

She puts a gentle hand to his chest, ducks her head and pushes him back, so softly. When she looks up at him, he looks a little wild, a little smug, and his lips are covered in her soft pink shade. Her thumb comes up to wipe it off, her hand lingering against his cheek, stubble rough on her fingers.

“I don’t imagine I’ll be free of you any time soon, Mr. Roy,” she says. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooh rating change oooh
> 
> happy american thanksgiving, final chapter will be posted in a week or so!

Gerri has to talk Roman into walking across the stage for graduation. He mutters something about his family not coming and no one in the audience to support him, hurt feelings he can’t even mask with sarcasm. She touches his arm, easier to be tactile now, less suspense built up between them, now that they know what’s there, and reminds him, softly, that she’ll be there. 

“Naked under your robes, Dr. Kellman?” he asks, a hopeful tilt to his head, smile still not quite reaching his eyes. She squeezes his elbow. 

“I think that’s more your purview, Mr. Roy.” Excessively formal now, no slip-ups, not this close to the finish line, for all that her thumb is brushing against his shirtsleeve. Gerri doesn’t think she’s ever waited this long for something before, doesn’t usually have to test her own patience. Frank finally stopped loitering around Gerri’s office, trying to catch her out, stopped emailing her every time he saw her in Roman’s office. She no longer feels like there’s a bomb about to go off, replaced instead with a thrum of anticipation, the knowledge that in less than a month’s time, _something_ will change. 

“It’s tempting,” he says. “I bet it gets hot under all that polyester.” 

“And you don’t even have the hood to wear.” Dressing for commencement, processing in all her regalia under the warm May sun, is one of her least favorite activities. Her robes are a far cry from the polyester rented robes the students wear, but breathable academic dress has yet to be invented. “Just make sure you take your robes out of the package before the ceremony. Those creases look good on no one.”

“So concerned about my appearance, Dr. Kellman. Someone might think you like me.” That quirk to his lips, the glint in his eyes. She knows what he tastes like now, what it feels like to have their bodies pressed together, the way he succumbs to her touch. Most days she can brush it aside, most days she can go about her business. But right now, with him across the desk from her, in the chair that will always belong to him in her mind, she can’t stop the flush that rises to her cheeks as she thinks about what’s next, about the freedom that will be afforded to them in a few weeks time. 

“Someone might, I suppose. Perhaps it’s just the same advice any professor would give to any student.” She does give this advice, year in and year out, but never with a smile on her lips and a second meaning behind her words.

Her hand comes back to her side of the desk, his arm looks lonely without her fingers there. 

“What if I trip walking up the stairs?” The excuse is weak, flimsy, and Gerri knows he’s going to walk across that stage, can already feel her heart bursting with pride at the sight.

“It wouldn’t be the first time and it won’t be the last, I assume,” she says, then amends, “Hundreds of people think they’re going to stumble and only one or two ever do. Odds are that you’ll be fine.”

“Are you a betting woman?” He’s looking down at his hands. “If I fall, you have to whoop _loudly_ for me. If I don’t fall, I’ll eat you out in your office after the ceremony.”

She feels the rush of pleasure and promise pooling between her thighs, knows her cheeks are pink. But all she says is, “I don’t really….’whoop.’” She makes quote marks with her fingers, frames her face. 

“Better hope I don’t fall, then,” he says, raps his fingers against her desk and then pushes himself up from the chair in a shot. “See ya, teach.” She wonders if he will actually go naked under his robes. There’s about a fifty-fifty chance.

She doesn’t see Roman again until she’s pulling on her regalia in her office. She can hear Frank two doors down, cursing about his sleeves and his hood. Her robes come on easily, she’s grateful they’re open in the front. She’s about to slip her own hood over her head when Roman appears, black polyester over, somewhat disappointingly, black trousers, freshly creased, breaking right above his shiny shoes. She forgets, sometimes, that he has money, that he’s known for years how to clean up well.

“Help me put this on,” she says, not waiting to hear whatever it is he has to tell her, just holds out the hood. They're close in height, when she’s in heels, she’s known this, but he’s never stood behind her, and she can feel his breath against her hair. His hands appear in her periphery as he slips the cloth past her face to rest against her clavicle, and then he’s messing with the fabric hanging down, turning the colors out. It’s oddly comforting, to have him there.

“Thank you. Now why are you here instead of with the rest of your peers, getting all lined up?” She turns, and he’s still so close, smells of the cologne she bought him for Christmas, slightly spiced. She still has to look up at him, slightly, sees the darkness in his eyes as he’s staring down, his lips slightly parted.

And then he shakes his head slightly, to wake up his brain, to restart his thoughts, and he takes a noticeable step back, both gratifying and irritating. “Just wanted to, uh, say thanks. For everything. I’m not, like, a walking Hallmark card or anything so I’ll just fuck it up, but you’re like the...only? Person who’s believed in me?” He’s not meeting her eyes, he’s looking up at the ceiling, and she’d grab his hand if he were anyone else, but he’s Roman, so she lets him be.

“Uh, anyway, I just wanted to make sure, you know, that you knew that. And even if I do fall on the stairs, I still want to come back here and eat you out against your desk.” He’s staring at the floor now, his gaze traveling all over while he fumbles with words. How articulate he can be when defending some doctrine, and what a gibbering mess when asked to do anything else.

“Win-win for me, then,” she murmurs back, which isn’t a no to his suggestion, and she sees the moment that clicks in his brain, the sideways look from under his hair. “Go line up. I’ll see you out there, Mr. Roy.”

He darts in, pushes and awkward kiss against her lips before she can do anything and then darts right back out, into the hallway. “I like the hat!” he calls as he goes, and Gerri can’t do anything but smile in bemusement that _this_ is her life. She never would’ve guessed it.

-

He walks across the stage and doesn’t fall. He turns to look at her as he moves his tassel from one side of his mortarboard to the other. She doesn’t do anything but smile and clap, nothing that belies the squeezing of her chest, the absolute pride she feels, his honors cords swaying about as he walks. She winks at him when he looks her way once more, just a sly drop of an eyelid, hopes he notices. The equivalent of a whoop, from her.

When she’s taking off the robes later, after the ceremony, after hundreds of photos with students, taken by beaming parents (but no one there to take a photo of her and Roman, beaming for different reasons), she’s putting it all back on padded hangers, and hears the opening of her office door, feels the stuttering of her heart. When she turns, it’s Roman, his graduation finery gone - crumpled into a ball somewhere, she’s sure, hat tossed aside as well.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” she asks, knowing the answer is no, knowing that she’s the one who issued the invitation, though not in so many words. He shakes his head, his hand on the lock of her door. She hears it click.

“Are we doing, like, foreplay?” he asks, and he looks suddenly like a fawn on unsteady legs, so unsure of himself.

“What do you think?” she asks right back. “You know I never just give you the answers. Pros and cons, reason it out. Use that degree you were just handed.”

“They gave me an empty tube. I’ve got, like, an overdue fucking library book or something and I don’t get the piece of paper until I turn it in.” He takes a step closer to her.

“When did you ever go to the library?” she asks, scoffing, leaning against her desk, fingers clenching the wooden lip, nervousness and excitement building, a little whorl of heat beneath her chest, expanding and growing.

“Freshman year, when I wanted to see if any of those pornos I watched in high school were real.” He’s close enough now to touch her, his hand reaching out to her hip, so tentative. “They weren’t.”

“Did you ejaculate over your computer screen watching naughty professor videos too?” she can’t help but asking, his face leaning in towards hers, so close her own breath bounces back against his face.

He doesn’t answer, but kisses her, better than before, a little more sure of himself this time, with more patience and care. She’s still the one who opens her mouth first, the one who slides a hand against his chest, his arm, while his fingers seem frozen to her hip.

“Roman,” she says, when she pulls away, her voice stern, and she can see the vein in his forehead throb slightly, a sure sign he likes that tone, more than he ever might say aloud. “You’re acting like a boy at a middle school dance. I don’t have cooties, your touches aren’t restricted to my - they aren’t restricted. Now have the _balls_ to follow through on our agreement or fuck off home so I can use my fingers in private.” 

His eyelashes flutter slightly, and when he leans in to kiss her again, there’s ferocity behind it, his hands going into her hair, framing her face, and she pushes herself up onto the desk, angling their mouths together better, tilting her head, her hands at his belt, using it to hold him, to tease him, to remind him why he’s there.

They’re both panting when he pulls away, and she can feel the wetness in her underpants, wonders if Roman can smell it. She feels the twitch in his pants, the hardening knob right below her fingers. When she strokes it, he makes a strangled noise, his face pale, and she just laughs.

“Are you scared, Roman? For once, there’s no grade. Just fucking _do_ something.” Her hand is underneath his chin, thumbnail lightly scraping across his cheek, and his tongue darts out to taste it, his teeth come to bite the pad of her finger. She can practically see the blocks rearranging in his mind as he pulls up _his_ chair, seated right before legs. 

He looks up at her once, for approval, for the go ahead, for reassurance, and she manages a nod, though the building tension in her body makes her almost immobile. His hands go back to rear, pulling her close to the edge of the desk, pushing up her skirt and now she _knows _he can smell her. He smirks, and she can’t fault him for that, she sees the pride in his eyes, the knowledge that he’s the one that’s done this, that’s made her feel this way.

“Impatient?” he asks, hand ghosting along her thigh, fingers cool against her heated flesh.

“It’s been two fucking years, Roman,” she says through gritted teeth, just enough pride to stop her from begging him to just get on with it. She thinks she’ll have to rearrange her office, to get new furniture, that she’ll never be able to have student meetings in here again without the memory of Roman’s head between her legs.

He laughs as he bends to work, the rumbly feeling against her sensitive skin almost too much, and her eyes drift close. His fingers scrabble at the elastic of her underwear, working it down her legs, and then pocketing them.

“Better than any fucking diploma,” he says, when she looks down at him.

“Can’t get a job with those, though.” It’s a half-hearted, rushed retort because her brain is cloudy, because the need throbbing through her is so strong, because she just wants him _there_ and she wants it now and it’s all she can think about.

“Probably won’t get a job anyway. Fucking depressed market.” She doesn’t know anyone else who would say those words right before putting their mouth right up against her clit. She can’t even think to retort that his dad could get him a job anywhere, because her head falls back, her hand cupping the back of his head, threading her fingers in his hair, holding him against her molten heat.

His tongue is insistent, strong, flicking back and forth against her, a steady beat that winds her up, that makes her feel like she’s at the edge of a waterfall, about to go over in a barrel.

And then he changes, sucks her into his mouth, and her hand turns into a fist, she can’t stop the glottal moan that comes out. He’s never expected, always zigging when she thinks he’s going to zag. One hand leaves her thigh, his fingers joining his mouth. The other hand slides to cup her ass, fingers digging into her skin, dress pushed up against her waist now, bare skin on the wood of her desk. 

She holds his head close, he holds her body close, neither of them willing to let go, to stray too far. Things changed today, everything. It’s not just this, now, the two of them here, in her office. It’s everything else too. He’s leaving, she’s staying, this is the last day he belongs on campus, the first day of the rest of his life, and where does she fit in?

His mouth pushes sadness aside, any nostalgia she feels tamped down as he nips at her, teeth gently biting, enough to make her twitch, her hips thrust upwards involuntarily. And then he starts over again, flicking back and forth, sucking, a rotation with no discernible pattern, one designed just to keep her dancing around on her toes, a ballet of wantonness that she can’t stop performing.

When she comes, his name is on her lips, and she slouches, boneless, loose, like she’ll just slide off the desk if Roman wasn’t there to hold her up. His mouth moves against her thigh, soft kisses pressed gently there, her hand loosening its grip against him. 

“And just think, we would’ve missed that if you’d fallen down,” she says finally, and he looks up at her, eyes dancing, his mouth still wet, tongue slipping out to taste her again, from his own lips. 

“Had to get one last extra credit assignment in,” he says, voice low, and he stands, pushing his chair back, kissing her once more, fully on the lips and she can taste herself now, mixed with him, a heady combination. “Do I get an A?”

“No more grades, Roman. That’s the whole point.” She kisses him once, twice, a soft press of her lips to his. He follows her mouth, doesn’t let her move away, keeps her seated on the desk, and she imagines the imprint her ass is going to leave behind. He’s still bulging in his trousers, pushing against her bare legs, practically rutting against her. 

She smoothly pulls his belt from the loops, unfastens it, slides it off his waist. The feeling of the leather sliding against his pants makes him move, their hands coming together to fumble with his zipper, his button. 

When he’s free, it feels so easy to pull his hips towards her, to slide a leg around the back of his leg, heel digging into his calf. His legs are pale, slight tan lines from the shorts he wore over the summer, his shirt hanging down loosely around his thin hips. She feels like he’s never had a full meal in his life, the look on his face like he wants to devour her whole.

She feels herself stretch to accommodate him, feels her body grow, expand, fill with him inside her. She kisses him again, hand holding his chin, tongue against his. His hips move with hers, a rhythm building, she sets the pace, still tender from before, letting him pump against her, into her. 

His head falls against her shoulder, she tilts her hips slightly as they move, and he groans at the change of angle, mouth hot on her neck. She licks the shell of his ear, nips at his lobe, and he shudders. When he comes, her name falls from his lips, a soft “Gerri,” followed by a bitten off “fuck.” 

It sounds better than she thought it would, better than she imagined, alone in bed, hand between her thighs, working furiously.

“I wanted that to last longer,” he says ruefully, and Gerri tilts his face so he’s looking at her.

“It lasted long enough,” she says, and he smiles, her approval the only thing he’s ever looked for. “And we can try again some other time.” She imagines him in her house, in her bed, when they can be horizontal and she can ride him from above. 

She hands him a tissue and he wipes at himself, she does the same. And her underwear is still in his pocket, so she just slides her skirt down her legs as she stands up. Her thighs are sticky, pressed together, and she kisses Roman’s cheek, breathes in the scent of him, cologne and sweat and _him_. 

“I’ll, uh, see you later, I guess,” he says, when his pants are back on, because there’s no protocol now. They’re in the world and whatever this is has a taste of reality now, no longer hidden behind flirtatious what ifs and provocative comments. 

When he leaves her office, she slowly moves his chair back to where it usually goes, tries not to feel any emotion about the fact that he most likely just got up from that chair for the last time. She straightens her skirt, hangs her robes on the back of her door, and doesn’t think about Roman smelling her underwear on the drive back to wherever it is he goes when he’s not in her office. She flicks off the light and leaves, walks out of the building, drives off campus, tells herself it’s the same as any other graduation, the sadness at something ending, that it’ll all sort itself out over the summer. 

-

He doesn’t wait five hours before texting her, and she feels an easing around her heart at the sight of his name popping up on her phone.

_Does this count as later?_

**Are you trying to invite yourself over?**

Her thighs are still sore, her movements ginger, unused to that kind of activity, even after a long soak in her tub. She’s still in her robe when he texts, feels the flush rise up under the terrycloth, considers sending him a photo, something she’s never done before.

_Your house, a hotel, middle of the street. I don’t fucking care, Gerri._

Apparently now that he’s said her name once, there’s no stopping him. She fiddles with the tie of her robe. Texts him her address.

He’s there in fifteen minutes.

She doesn’t keep a tally of how often he comes to her home, but she’d wager he spends more time in her bed than in his own that summer. They spend one night in his apartment, but it’s cold and impersonal and his father calls the landline in the middle of it. She stands in the bathroom while Roman talks, naked and cold, the air conditioning turned up too high. And when he hangs up, he urges her into the shower and turns the water on hot, presses her against the walk, mouth moving against every inch of her bare skin.

They get a hotel sometimes, and he always pays. There’s champagne waiting in the room and he drips it down her chest, licks it all off too. She doesn’t ask what people think they’re doing there, if anyone knows what he’s doing, just lets him ply her with room service and money, thinks she’d rather him spend it this way than on drugs or whores or whatever else it is rich people do.

The hotel tub is large enough for both of them, and she straddles his lap, knees hitting the sides of the porcelain bath. She tells him how pale he is and he says it’s because she’s not letting him out in the sun. “Practically chained up as your fucking sex slave.”

“The point of a sex slave would be fucking,” she volleys, swirling her hips against him, squeezing her inner muscles, making him spasm as his hands grip her shoulders.

Her own bed, though, seems to be his favorite place. He breathes in the scent of her pillows, wallows in her sheets, and watches her in adoration as she moves above him, always letting her on top. He makes any excuse to slide between her thighs, to dip his tongue inside her, to taste, to suckle, to savor every inch of her.

It takes longer for her to get his cock in her mouth, and she can tell he’s nervous. But she runs a hand down his chest, through the sparse dark hairs, gently slaps his ass before rubbing the soft flesh as she swallows him, teeth gently rubbing against his purpling flesh. Her tongue slides against him, rounding the head of his dick. She can tell he’s holding back, doesn’t want to push into her, doesn't want to embarrass himself. She thinks some day, she’ll convince him to let go, to go wild, feels a trill of hope, pleasure, at the thought of some day.

They have three months, three full months, ninety days, where they don’t go longer than two days without seeing each other. She gives him a key to her house, comes home from grocery shopping to find him sitting in her armchair, sometimes naked, sometimes clothed. He surprises her and delights her, and he’s expected and not, all in the same bundle. 

She hopes he finds the same sort of attraction in her.

The night before he leaves, he forgets to tell her. She asks what his plans are for the week and his eyebrows go up in surprise. 

“I’m going to Harvard,” he says. “Orientation, that whole make friends with your academic enemies bullshit.”

“You should make friends. If you can,” she says absently, because the weight of him leaving the next day is settling around her shoulders. “Tomorrow?”

“It means we have one more night,” he says hopefully, and lets her lead him upstairs. It’s easier to lay him down on her bed, to unbutton his shirt, scrape her nails along his chest. It’s easier to do all that than to think about what his leaving means. Her hand slides against his cock, hard and stiff and red, and she lowers herself down, so easy now, so practiced. When he thrusts up against her, it’s familiar and welcome.

He falls asleep before her, cheek smashed against the pillow, and she brushes a lock of hair away from his face. The summer brought a tenderness, a knowing of each other, and it’s hard to believe it ends after today.

They’ve never talked about the future, nothing certain, no specifics. She knows what his intentions will be, knows that he’ll promise to keep in touch if she asks. But she won’t ask, wouldn’t ask.

She kisses him goodbye against her door, bites at his lower lip the way she did the first time, and it still makes him moan. He pushes her hair off her face and says he’ll text. “Thanks for the summer, Gerri,” he says, because he doesn’t know how to say anything else. He is, after all, not a Hallmark card.

And he does text. For a week, he texts every day, twice and three times. He’s bored, he’s annoyed, everyone’s an idiot. He sends her a picture of his dick and she sends back a middle finger. And then, feeling incredibly silly, takes a selfie while in the bath. He sends back an eggplant.

When classes start, he texts less. But she’s busy too, her own semester starting, new names to learn, syllabi to hand out. If anyone knows about how she spent her summer, she can’t tell. There aren’t whispers or giggles as she walks by, and that’s a relief if nothing else. She texts Roman that the department is quiet without him. 

_You can finally get some work done_.

She gets an email, once, asking for clarification on something he could’ve just googled. She writes back, quick and terse and efficient. He replies with a “Thanks, teach” and it feels like they’ve regressed. She wonders if he’s met a girl. Or, somehow worse, if he’s met another professor.

By winter, his texts have stopped and she can’t get mad. She didn’t ask for anything and he didn’t offer. He left and she stayed. He’s got his whole life ahead and her life is here. He’s out there, learning, living, doing.

And she’s alone again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we made it to the end! please enjoy! thanks to everyone who commented and kudosed and i hope you know how much i appreciate it! this tiny great lil fandom!

Semesters blend together, students and classes becoming one in her memory, only a few brilliant minds standing out among the crowds. Gerri wants to remember everyone, but mostly she just manages the facade of remembering everyone. “Of course, of course. You wrote that paper on Marxism! I remember.” Almost every political science student writes a paper on Karl Marx at least once in their career, thinking they’re breaking open some new secret of politics, it’s a safe guess. Every student is the same. So she says her lines, she gets the smile from the alum, and they are once more confident that _they_ were special, that _they_ made an impact.

There’s one student who never comes back to visit, a student she thinks must have forgotten about her the minute he went away. It’s only when she’s feeling particularly maudlin that she lets herself think about Roman Roy, manages to shove down those feelings by going to drinks with the new English professor, taking the Dean of Students to a late dinner, inviting the International Programs director in for a cup of coffee. There a constant stream of people coming in and out, always someone to fill the space when she doesn’t want to be alone.

It’s a surprise, then, when she gets a phone call, her work line ringing - a rare occurrence. “Kellman,” she answers, crisp and neat, the number reading off-campus. It might be her editor, an update on her latest manuscript: a treatise on media and American politics. 

“Gerri?” The voice is gravelly, deep, familiar in a vague sort of way. “This is Logan Roy.” He’s caught her off-guard for the second time in her life. “We need someone to come up to the offices and sort some things out for us.” He speaks in the nonspecific way that means it’s some deep shit they’re into. 

“Thanks for the update,” she says coolly, is going to make him say what it is he needs to say, won’t ask questions, won’t give in to his bait. She hasn’t spoken to a Roy in fifteen years, for all that Logan’s on the board still. He comes to one event a year and she spends it on the opposite side of the room. She heard he had a stroke last year, but that he’s as much of an angry bear as ever now, riled up as people poke him between the bars of his gilded cage.

There’s a cough on the other end of the line, a slightly muffled, “Leave me the fuck alone,” like Logan covered up the receiver, doesn’t realize how much his voice carries. Or else it’s all a game, and he’s posturing on his end. She sighs, too loudly to be genuine. She can posture too. 

“I’ll be square with you,” he says, when he realizes she won’t give first. “I remember you from that fucking breakfast on the Cape. Roman always liked you, wouldn’t have brought you in the house if he didn’t. And you’ve got moxie, I remember that. We need some of that. Instead of all these fucking guys with their ties pulled to tight, like their heads are about to pop off.”

“I’m getting a job offer based on moxie?” She can’t hide the disbelief in her voice, can’t believe this is a serious phone call. She wonders, briefly, if Roman is behind this, somehow, if he’s gotten his father to play a prank on her, if it’s some kind of bizarre romantic overture. She hates herself for wondering that. 

“I read your book. The one coming out next year.” The book that no one but her editors have read. He’s definitely posturing now, a peacock preening with his tail in full bloom. “You know your shit. Better than the suits up here. All fighting to climb up my ass instead of pulling us out of the muck.” 

“A nice image.” She clears her throat. “And how long will I be up there? A week? A month? Am I taking a sabbatical?” Classes just ended for the year, she wonders if he knows that. 

“Why don’t you come up and then we see what happens? Maybe you won’t be a fit.” She knows already that she’ll fit in well, thinks Logan knows that too. He wouldn’t have made the call in the first place, out of the blue, to a woman who hasn’t practiced law in years, if he didn’t want her on the payroll. She knows enough about Waystar Royco to know that. 

“This isn’t a request, is it?” She wonders if he’s already called the school, used to his sway as a donor to get her sabbatical, or bought them a new building if they’ll hold her place as long as she’s away. She’s stopped thinking this is something Roman planned.

“A car will be waiting for you tomorrow morning, plane ticket in the back seat.” The line goes dead. Her computer notifies her of a new email: the dean of faculty giving her the fall semester off, couched in the flimsy excuse that she’ll need time to finalize her book. The efficiency of Waystar already at work. 

-

After being in New York for a week, all Gerri knows for certain is that Waystar | Royco is into some fucked up shit. She doesn’t think they’re even telling her everything, just the parts of the fire that she can put out. There are other bonfires in other parts of the company, she’s sure. When she’s handed the NDA, along with a short-term contract with a very generous dollar amount written in, she pushes down any part of her that might hate this company and everything she stands for, pushes it down and signs her name. She’s here to do a job, not pass judgment. That’s always been her way. 

The company offices are ridiculous, an amount of wealth on display far beyond anything back in pokey academia. She sees the allure, from her plush swivel chair, her new computer, the assistant always right there to see to her every request. She’s always adapted well to new routines, always been able to find her way, hollow out her niche. It’s no different here, despite the new world she’s found herself in. 

When she sees Roman for the first time, it’s because he’s practically dragged into her office by Logan, his hand gripping his son’s arm. “Fix his shit,” he says, and leaves them alone, the door banging closed behind him. 

“Uh,” is all Roman says, standing in the middle of her large, carpeted office, looking for all the world like the college student she once knew, awkward and unsure, trying to hide it all under bravado and sarcasm. His hands go into his pockets, fingers bunched into fists, shoulders slightly hunched. 

She tries not to stare at him, to tally up the differences: his hair, his clothes, the slight wrinkles at his eyes. Instead she gestures at the chair in front of her desk and pretends like the sight of him sitting down doesn’t bring back a flood of memories. “What do I need to fix?” she asks, looking at him over the rim of her glasses. 

“Dear old dad said he hired a new lawyer. I didn’t think he was giving out pity positions.” He stares sulkily at his shoes, and the warming nostalgia moving through her twists and turns into a molten anger. 

“Is petulant child the attitude you want to take right now, Roman?” Her voice is sharp, and he snaps up, ever the willing student, wanting to please the professor. “You think you have the higher ground here?” She doesn’t embellish, lets the words settle across him, until his pout turns into more of a disgruntled moue. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, and it isn’t as satisfying to hear as she thought it might be. 

“It was years ago,” she bluffs, waving his apology away. “Why have you been deposited in my office today?” His shoulders come back up, hands gripping the arms of the chair, fingers pulling at the cushions, like he might pull them off. 

“There’s this whole rocket thing, but I think it’s fine. Like, it blew up, but it’s fine? I think Daddy’s just sick of my bullshit. He remembers I liked you.” She purses her lips, feels certain Logan never knew just how much they liked each other. Or whatever it was that they were to each other. “I’m just _bored_,” he adds, and Gerri knows that’s the greatest punishment, that his idle mind can get in more trouble than a parade of toddlers with a jar of jam. 

“My office isn’t the place where you can escape, Roman. Not anymore.” She looks down at the papers in front of her, dense contracts and terrifying memos. A far cry from syllabi and sophomore papers. When she looks up, Roman is staring at her, those dark eyes she remembers so well. 

“You changed your hair,” he says, his voice almost accusing, and her hand goes to her head self-consciously. It’s shorter, straighter, different. “Shiv has her whole thing, her whole life away from this fucking place. And Ken is off doing shit, and I’m…” he trails off, and Gerri takes pity on him. 

“Here’s an idea: you do shit.” She can be his professor, she can be what he needs. Maybe that’s the real reason she’s here, someone who can do something about Roman, whether that’s what Logan intended or not. “Do management training, start at the ground floor. Act like a fucking adult instead of an acne-riddled pre-teen jerking off in a sock.” 

“What, like grow a mustache and read the Wall Street Journal?” He’s sitting up straighter, hands less tense, eyes bright, dancing around the room, and she wonders what the world looks like from his eyes. 

“I’d rethink the facial hair, but Journal isn’t a bad starting place. Your father would let you drown in shit if he didn’t care, so you have to show him you care too. Now get out of my office and go do whatever the fuck it is you need to do to work your way up.” She waves him out, goes back to shuffling the papers on her desk, trying to prioritize them. There’s a knock on the glass of her office and she looks up, sees Roman leaning against the door frame. 

“It’s good to see you, teach,” he says, raps his fingers against the wall once more and leaves, the door shutting softly behind him. 

-

When Roman leaves for management training, sent to some god-awful amusement park miles away, it’s almost a relief. Somehow, with fifteen years spent apart, it’s easy to fall into old habits; Roman comes to her office, she tells him to fuck off. She can see assistants and lawyers eyeing her, assuming that she’s fucking the son of Logan Roy, that there’s no other explanation for her presence in the offices, not on the top floor. 

She has to work harder, proving herself to be adept at a job she never interviewed for. She’s calm, she’s reasonable, she’s incisive, cutting to the heart of every deal, seeing every angle of a situation before offering advice. Years of coddling undergrads feels like preparation for handling the egos of businessmen. 

And when Roman leaves, she starts to get the credit she deserves. Other people come into her office, asking for her advice. She gets invited to lunch meetings, after work drinks. 

Through it all, though, he texts her. She never changed her number, he never changed his. The last message in their conversation thread is lost to the ether of replaced phones, but she remembers it was a pitiful, “Merry Christmas” from her, and that he never wrote anything back. It doesn’t hurt so much, anymore, but she still wonders what made him stop. 

_Everyone here is an idiot._

**Are you including yourself in that?**

_Everyone but me._

**Never lost that high opinion of yourself, did you?**

**__**_I would love to be high right now_.

She would be lying if she said she didn’t smile when her phone buzzes, his name on the screen. He always could make her laugh, more than anyone else she’s ever known. He sends her a picture of himself in a turkey costume and she makes it his contact photo. She sends a picture of her feet up on the desk, a late night in the office, her lamp the only light on the floor. She doesn’t ask what he does with that. 

And then he calls her one night, calls her while she’s in her too-large apartment, watching the news, drink freshly poured, feet on her table, shirt untucked. She’s never asked how much the rent is, never wanted to know why the liquor cabinet is always fully stocked. 

“What is it, Roman?” she asks, voice sharper than she means it to be, but she was counting on at least one hour free of having to think about anything to do with the Roy family. 

“I’m still pissed about that video footage. Kendall’s there like a fucking dead log, like Groot up there on the screen, except with less personality. And all they fucking show is just me, standing there, like a fucking puppet.” She can tell he’s been drinking too, expletives dropping from his lips as easy as breathing. “They’re treating me like a piece of shit.”

“You are a piece of shit.” It’s easy to access her anger, her frustration, all the things she feels about him, easy to use them as a touchpoint. If he’s surprised by her vitriol, he doesn’t say anything, and she hears him run water in the bathroom, wonders if he’s drawing a bath, if he just called her after he took a shit, can’t picture what he’s doing, not really. 

“I came up with a ride,” he says, “and we have to fucking build it. It’ll knock the socks off all those whiny ass kids that come to the park.” She can’t imagine what kind of thing he would dream up. Probably something with clown faces and loop-the-loops, flashing lights and spooky sounds. Like the Wonka ride down the river, but even worse. 

“Your first drafts were always shit, Roman,” she says, because it’s true. “No one is building anything until you’ve done at least a _modicum_ of editing. You can’t just spout off an idea and expect it to happen.” He used to work hard, at least some of the time. She wonders what happened to make him what he is now. 

“I’m an ideas fountain,” he says, and she hears the sound of his shirt coming off. She thinks about unbuttoning her own shirt. “My brilliance just comes cascading out, like a fucking - like a fucking ideas _volcano_.”

“Volcano or fountain, Rome? You can’t be both.” He’s still the ridiculous boy she found endlessly charming. She wishes she could see his face right now, knows his eyes are dark and bright all at once, shining in the light of wherever he is, imagines a gleeful smirk on his lips, knows it matches her own.

“I’m fucking Pompeii.” She can hear his belt drop to the floor, knows that sound well enough. She slides her free hand between the buttons of her shirt, her skin warm against her palm. 

“Causing devastating destruction. Hardly a good metaphor.” She hears his panting breath, remembering vividly how he moved against her, his lips against her ear, heated puffs that hit her cheeks. She can picture it now, could almost imagine he’s there with her. She squeezes her breast, fingers going beneath her bra, finding her nipple. 

“They’ll put me in the history books, though,” he grunts, and she thinks she can hear the slick sounds of his hand moving against his cock. 

“You’re so fucking full of yourself, Roman,” she says, and she means it, but knows he likes the way her voice curls around the words, can tell that he finds her disapproval arousing. There’s a reason he got hot for teacher all those years ago. And there’s nothing stopping her from wriggling her skirt down her thighs, from fingering herself to the rhythm of his labored panting.

“You’re a mewling goat who can’t get the milk it needs, and no one will ever take you seriously until you wean yourself from the company teat.” Advice cloaked in venom, care covered by titillation. 

“Fuck, _Gerri_.” She hasn’t heard her name sound like that in so long. Not aloud, anyway. She’s played it in her mind, alone in bed, she’s thought of it during unsatisfactory encounters. There’s something different about the way he says her name, something special. He puts her on a pedestal, and makes her feel like she belongs there. Her name is a benediction on his lips, a blessing that makes her come. 

-

She gets brought along on the family trip to Tern Haven. She tries to pretend that meeting Nan Pierce isn’t one of the greatest pleasures of her professional career. Being blase and unaffected works, until Roman tries to translate their family motto in her ear, butchering the Latin she knows that he knows. She can’t quite get mad, though, not with his mocking voice whispering vagina in her ear and that smirking mouth. 

Dinner is terrible. The food is good, but everything else is a disaster. Shiv is trying too hard, and Gerri remembers how Roman always hated her liberal arts ideals and how she tried to weaponize them. She thinks Shiv never had a good mentor, never had anyone teach her how to use all those small college skills out in the real world. Roman watches her across the table, and Gerri thinks, perhaps, he knows how lucky he is to have her. 

He comes to her room, late at night, when she’s in her pajamas, hair pulled back in a scrunchie that somehow made it from her home to her apartment in New York to here. He grouses about the lack of alcohol, she hands him the glass she already had poured, and he drinks it dry. “Always could count on you,” he says, handing the glass back, and she refills it, takes a deep sip of her own. 

The whisky hits the back of her throat, burns nicely. It’s enough to make her ask, “What happened?” at the same time Roman says, “I’m sorry.” They both close their mouths and stare at each other. She doesn’t know if she’s brave enough to ask him the question again. She doesn’t know if the apology is enough. 

“Did you know the job market is shit for poli sci professors?” he says instead. “Got a whole degree and not one department in the entire fucking country has an opening. No one retires.” 

“Is this a roundabout way of asking for my job?” she asks, because she knows that isn’t what he means, because she doesn’t think she can ask for what she really wants. Maybe she doesn’t even know what that is. 

He just shakes his head, pivots to another topic, dancing away from the heart of the matter. “You’re the hottest professor I ever had.” She feels the compliment like a flame in her heart, a spark catching, warmth at his continued admiration. He steps closer to her. “I bet you’re still the hottest professor in the department.” His fingers twitch at his sides and she thinks he wants to touch her, is very aware that they haven’t touched each other in fifteen years. 

“When Frank’s my competition, that isn’t saying much.” Her voice is soft, breathy in a way that she hates, but the smell of him - still wearing the cologne she bought him years ago - fills her nostrils and makes her knees go a little weak. She blinks once, twice, aware of how heavy her eyelashes feel, when she’s trying not to look up at him. He’s always been taller than her. 

And then his fingers catch a stray strand of hair, escaped from her ponytail, brushing it back. She forgot how tender he could be. His fingers go under her chin, tilting her face towards his. And he waits, because she’s the wronged one, because she has to say this is okay. 

There’s only one answer she can give. 

When they kiss, it is achingly familiar and starkly different. They know each other well, and they’ve forgotten each other too. Her hands slide under his t-shirt, the elastic of his sweatpants, they travel all around his body, so unchanged for so much time. She worries, for a moment, that the unkind years will make Roman doubt that he wants her, that she’s more wrinkled, sagging more, a little heavier around the middle. 

He assuages that fear quickly, a bite to her neck, a groan of appreciation as he unbuttons her silky top, sliding it off her shoulders, any feeling of frumpiness going with it. She pushes him back to the bed, her skin prickling in the cold night air and she wonders if Tern Haven runs on steam heat, for all that it’s chilly in her room. 

His shirt comes over his head, his pants bunch at his ankles. She holds his dick in her hand, erect and purple as she remembered. The power he gives her, the strength he makes her feel; she remembers that too. He bucks against her fingers, moving with muscle memory, with surety, with confidence. He stares up at her, unblinking, in awe, and lets her have her way with him. Her hand is sticky with come and she wipes it on the quilt, gets perverse pleasure at the idea of Nan Pierce’s staff finding it tomorrow, wondering who it was she had in her bed. 

He’s not as young as he was, not as ready for a second round, so they lie together, naked under the sheets, and his hand rests at the curve of her waist. She can’t remember if they ever did this, this tenderness, whether she’s forgotten or she’s shoved the memory down so far that it won’t ever surface, she doesn’t know. 

“What is this, Roman?” she asks, turning to look up at the ceiling, his hand moving with her body, his thumb resting close to her belly button, the softest part of her stomach. She stops herself from clenching those muscles, from worrying about what he thinks. 

“Has it been that long since you’ve had sex?” he asks, and she reaches blindly to hit him, makes contact with his shoulder, nails lightly scraping against his face as her hand moves. “It’s whatever you want. You make the rules.” He’s giving her everything on a platter and it scares her. There’s nothing stopping them, no governing bodies that will hold them accountable, no coworkers to report them to anyone. 

“I don’t want to make rules,” she says. “I just. Roman, you make me fucking _reckless_ and I don’t like it.” She moves her hand back to her side of the bed, rests it just above his on her chest, her little finger close to his thumb. He twitches slightly, lets them touch, and it makes a thrill go through her. 

“I think you do,” he says, propping himself up on one arm, elbow sinking into the pillow. “I think you like that you have me in the palm of your fucking hand, you can just start me like a wind-up toy.” He says it flatly, not like he’s angry about it. “I just think you don’t like that you have to admit it.” 

He knows her better than she’d like, he always has. She rubs her other hand across her forehead. “So what now? We fuck in secret bedrooms until the end of time? Or when I go back to my real life, you just forget about me again?” There’s bitterness there, and she doesn’t try to hide it. 

She turns her head, looks right at him, and he stares back unflinchingly. “There’s another option,” he says carefully, more pauses than words, and it’s as thoughtful as she’s ever seen him. “We could, you know, get married.” 

He says it so casually that she thinks he can’t be serious. “What?” is the only thing that comes to mind. She’s been proposed to once before, and it wasn’t anything like this. There were flowers and candles and an overpriced meal. There was a ring slipped in a champagne glass, and a kneeling man at her feet. And maybe there’s a reason that marriage ended. 

“You say ‘I do’ and I say ‘I do’ and there’s a guy in a funny hat at the front of a church and then people throw rice. Or whatever.” She thinks he might be serious. 

“Roman…” she starts, and his face immediately shuts down, his eyes going flat, his hand retracting, and he’s stumbling from the bed, looking for his clothes. His ass is white and bright in the night, and it doesn’t even make her smile. 

“It was just an idea. Like you own me, I own you, and we live happily ever after, like a fucking fairy tale.” He’s wounded, defensive, and if he had a tail, it would be between his legs. But then a thread of steel moves through him and he looks at her once more, takes her all in, sitting up in bed, sheets bunched at her waist, and he doesn’t look away. “I’m not going anywhere this time, Gerri. Think about it.” 

-

Her contract ends, eventually. She still isn’t sure exactly what it is she was supposed to solve, isn’t sure why she was brought to the company for seven months. But her bank account is full, and her house has a coat of dust over every surface, and there’s a part of her that just wants to get back to her life. 

She wants to test Roman, too, to see if he’ll be true to the words he said to her at Tern Haven. He never stopped visiting her office, texting her at odd hours of the night, calling her in the middle of meetings, forcing her to step out for a few moments until she could tell him to fuck off. But they didn’t sleep together, and she feels the ache between her thighs every time she thinks about every missed opportunity, every time he sat in that chair across from her, late at night, when they were the only two there. Every time he texted her in the middle of a board meeting to ask what underwear she had on, watching her blush from across the table. 

To her surprise, and to her delight, he doesn’t stop texting when she’s back at school. She thinks he must know her class schedule somehow, used his connections to figure out the hours she’s in class. She has to stop bringing her phone with her, leaves it in her office, and knows she’ll come back to a string of messages full of varying degrees of filth. She leans back in her chair and reads them, a smile on her face, and resists the urge to slide her hand between her legs. 

They talk on the phone once a week, but she never knows when it’ll come. Sometimes she runs from the shower when she hears her phone buzzing, enjoys the sound he makes when she tells him she’s standing in a towel. Sometimes she’s eating dinner in front of the TV and she’s grateful for the distraction. 

She thought she’d be glad to return to the world she knows, to grading papers, to having all the answers. It turns out to be boring, tedious. Her mind wanders as she reads over assignments, and she thinks about the contracts she read in her office at the top of the world. Faculty meetings are a time-consuming waste when compared to the board meetings where expletives flew back and forth and people were fired at the drop of a hat. It was terrifying, but it was exciting, and she misses it. She’s all the more grateful when Roman calls, when he texts, a tenuous connection to the world she wants to belong to again.

Despite his commitment to keeping in touch, despite all the contact they have, when there’s a knock on her office door on a Friday afternoon, she doesn’t expect it to be him. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t let her know his schedule. He just appears in her door, real and whole, a person standing in front of her. When he slides into the chair across from her, the one she’s never replaced, though it’s gotten old, saggy, worn, it’s like a puzzle piece fits into place. 

“Come back to Waystar,” he says, a slight tremble to his voice, like he’s not used to demanding the things he wants, like he’s not sure what she’ll say. “If I’m going to run things, I want you there too.” 

She pushes her chair back from the desk, a creaky old swivel chair, nothing like the one in New York. He watches her as she walks around the desk, her hands sliding along the arms of his chair. It’s always been his chair,. It will always be his chair. “What’s in it for me?” 

It’s not an answer when he tilts his head back, pushes himself up so their mouths meet. They kiss in her office, with the door open, because it doesn’t matter if Frank walks by. She slides her tongue between his lips and tastes the whiskey he tossed back to get the courage to come here. 

“Come with me,” he says. “I should’ve asked before.” 

“I wouldn’t have said yes before,” she tells him, kissing him again because she can. He looks hopeful and young, but determined and mature, a never-ending dichotomy in front of her. 

“What are you saying now?” he asks, his shoulders tensing, fingers looking like they’re itching to go into his pockets.

“What do you think?” she volleys back. He’s always wanted to rise to her scrutiny, always wanted to give her the right answer, to earn her approval. And right here, right now, she gives him the easiest test she’s ever set. One question, one answer. He smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Everywhere I roam  
I'll see you on the road_
> 
> _Oh, I take it in vain  
All the plans and moves that we made  
Half a heart is aching to grow  
Soulmates aren't just lovers, you know_
> 
> "Traveling Song" by Ryn Weaver


End file.
